


Quite the Team

by Las_Botas



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M, Fluff and Humor, One Shot Collection, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4513158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Las_Botas/pseuds/Las_Botas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Per a request on Tumblr, I finally posted all my CS oneshots on ff.net. And if they're on there, they might as well be here, too. Primarily humor, fluff, a pinch of smut here & there. Ratings vary; M fics will be marked as such.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (I'm Going by) The Stars in Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the last CS Secret Santa on Tumblr, though not strictly an Xmas fic. Scoutmaster!Killian & Scoutmom!Emma

  _For story purposes, Storybrooke is a suburb of San Diego. Title from the song by The Dramatics._

* * *

 _Brrr_! Emma Swan hastily zipped up her fleece jacket as another current of icy air hit her. This was really not how she thought she’d be spending Christmas Eve. But this year, luckily, Henry was hers and she’d do whatever made him happy. She just hadn’t thought—hoped was more like it— going on the camping trip out to Anza Borrego with all the Storybrooke Elementary Cub Scouts from first through fifth grade would be on his wishlist.

And all the Scoutmasters. One in particular, if she was being truthful with herself.

“Still not speaking to me?” a familiar, deep voice murmured in her ear, while a leather-gloved hand circled in front of her with a metal thermos. She rolled her eyes, snatching the thermos against her better judgment, and lifted the lid for a whiff.  _Hot chocolate. Not just that, with cinnamon. Henry must have told him. That was nice…I suppose._

She turned around. “Who brings cinnamon on a camping trip?”

“Only the most well-prepared of Scoutmasters,” Killian Jones grinned at her, “Ones who’re prepared for a range of calamities—heat, cold, floods, insects, bears, and angry mothers.”

Emma rolled her eyes, taking the smallest of sips. “There’re no bears in the desert.”

“Ah, well, ‘spose I could’ve lumped them in with the ‘angry mothers’ category.”

She pointedly glanced down at his left hand, swathed in an Ace bandage, and up at the gauze taped over his right eyebrow. “Henry could’ve been killed.”  _And you, too_.

Most of the Scouts and leaders had gone out the other afternoon, taking turns on each others’ dirtbikes along the rocky terrain. Killian and Henry had been sharing a bike, when one of them—she wasn’t sure, both refused to give the other one up—had the bright idea to hop across a “narrow” crevasse. Naturally, it turned out to be much wider than at first glance, and they’d both skidded several feet along the sharp granite. It could’ve been so much worse than the few bloody scratches and sprains they’d ended up with, but she’d still yelled at Killian for it in front of the whole pack. Now everyone else seemed slightly afraid of her, and Henry was grumpy about her “overreaction”.

Killian looked down, gave a scratch behind his ear. “I don’t mean to belittle the concern you have for your boy, lass, but no lad escapes childhood without a few bumps and bruises.”

Emma pressed her lips together tightly. “I’m sure you think I’m an uptight shrew,  _Mr. Jones_ , but when your only family consists of a single other person you’ve sworn to protect, maybe you’ll understand my stance.”

His eyes hardened. “Actually, I think I understand that viewpoint perfectly, Swan.”

God, when would she stop to think before opening her mouth? She didn’t know what he’d been through before he’d wound up in Storybrooke. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “That was…super rude of me.”

“S’alright.”

  _Do_  not _let this turn awkward again; he’s just a man. Possibly the most gorgeous man in existence…but still, a man. Just make conversation_. “Is this a remnant from those rough ‘n tumble years of yours, Jones?”

She’d meant to simply indicate the scar on his cheek (which certainly didn’t make him more dashing, not at all) verbally, but her hand seemed to float towards him of its own accord, stopping just about a half inch from his face. Even Killian looked startled at her uncharacteristic move, though he didn’t move away.

 _Oh my god, you almost_ touched _Killian Jones. Reign it in, psycho_.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly. “You know, I—I think the boys may need some help with dinner. I’m, uh…I’m gonna go check on them.”

Killian smirked. “Swan, it’s chili from a can—“

“Yeah, uh, right. I’ll just go on and see if—oof!” Her backwards walk had earned her a butt-plant right on the rocky ground, courtesy of a folded-up lawn chair. “I’m fine!” she insisted when he reached out his good hand to try and help her, moving away in an ungraceful crab crawl for a few paces. He watched her stumble to her feet, his arms crossed, obvious amusement reflected in a wide grin.

“Alright there, Swan?” he called loudly.

“Just perfect!” she yelled back, stomping away, embarrassed.

“Getting dark; don’t forget your headlamp! Don’t want you to trip into the campfire and ruin everyone’s meal!”

“Yeah, thanks for the tip!” Emma made the mistake of glancing back over her shoulder, and he gave her an exaggerated wave, fanning his swaddled hand from one side to the other as though he were painting a mid-air rainbow.

“I’ll see you later, Swan! Perhaps you’ll join the post-supper activity I have planned?”

“Fat chance!”

* * *

 Well, she’d stalled far too long, sulking in her tent after dinner until even Henry had ditched her for one of the Scoutmasters’ activities or games. Emma grudgingly strapped her headlamp on and trudged out of the camping circle, peering at the silhouettes leaping around in the darkness. She was definitely not joining some desert night crawler hunt (gross), and the low temperature certainly sapped her drive for an evening hike. She scanned the spread-out group, finding a smaller lump of them who looked like they were planning on staying sedentary, and started trekking over. It looked like a good number of boys were all gathered on a large, spread-out workblanket overlying a tarp, though she couldn’t tell what was going on.

 _Ugh, great_. She’d found Henry, but sitting right next to him was the object of her bad mood.

“Ah, Swan, I knew you’d come ‘round.”

“What’s all this?” she asked.

“Scoutmaster Jones is showing us how to find shapes in the stars,” one boy volunteered.

“Huh?”

“Constellations, lad, that’s the term.” Killian turned his phone screen towards Emma. “There’s, as the young’uns say, an app for that.” He handed it off to Henry, looked back to her. “I’m pretty savvy with them already, but it’s a fantastic learning tool for beginners.”

“Hmph,” she grumbled, plopping down on Henry’s other side. He held the phone in front of her face, aiming it at a particular section of sky. On the screen, lines started to connect a couple different points of light.

“Look, Mom, that’s Ursa Major.”

She tilted her head at the shape, trying to remember the rudimentary facts from her high school astronomy class. “And what the heck is that supposed to be?”

Henry rolled his eyes like she was being purposefully thick. “A  _bear_!”

“And there’s the Little Dipper!” one of his pack mates volunteered, pointing above.

“Close, m’boy. That’s the Pleiades, though it  _does_  look like a dipper,” Killian corrected generously.

Emma did her best to blend into the background, chin on her knees, while the boys asked Killian questions and gave loud whoops when they identified a particular constellation correctly. As the half-moon dipped lower in the sky, the boys started to trail back to camp, one-by-one, as the started to feel the strain of the full day. Within an hour, only she, Henry, and a particularly infuriating British transplant remained.

Henry raised his head from where it had slumped against her shoulder. “’M’tired,” he mumbled, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m going to our tent, Mom.”

“Er, are—are you sure?” Emma hoped her panic didn’t reflect in her voice. “But you could just—“

“Mom, are you afraid of the dark, or something?”

 _Or something_.

“There’s nothing out here—just owls and coyotes. And Kil—Scoutmaster Jones will stay with you, won’t you, sir?”

Killian gave him a salute. “You have my word, lad. No harm will come to your mum while she’s in my care.”

Henry gave him a satisfied nod, then started off in the direction of camp. “’Night.”

* * *

The silence stretched agonizingly, until Killian finally had enough and ended it.

“So, Swan…what’s your sign?”

“ _Excuse_  me? Does that line ever work for you?”

“Relax, darling. I have much more refined ways to a lady’s knickers. I merely wanted to find your zodiac sign for you up above.”

 _Right. Chill out, Emma, he hasn’t been anything but nice since the accident yesterday_. “It’s—it’s Scorpio.”

“Hmm…” he did some fiddling with his phone for a minute. “Sorry, Swan. As it’s not summer, you’re out of luck—unless you’d like to take an impromptu trip to the Southern Hemisphere?”

That finally got a laugh out of her, and she settled onto her back, hands clasped over her ribcage. “I think I’m good for now.”

“Ah-ah, don’t give up yet. Let’s find your namesake.” He leaned back on his good hand, squinting upwards.

“I’ve, uh…got a namesake?”

“Cygnus—the swan formation. There it is!” Killian moved towards her too speedily for her to deflect, wrapping an arm over her shoulder to pull her up, and gesturing with his bandaged hand. “See?”

“Not really.”

He moved his hand from her shoulder to under her chin, gently inclining her head. “And now?”

How the hell did he expect her to concentrate on some flickering stars when she just knew he was looking right at her, his nose barely nudging the soft skin next to her ear, a smile in his tone. He was too close, too fucking close. She slid a hand between them to give her face a nervous scratch, accidently rapping her knuckle right between his eyes.

“Y-you know, I think I do see it.” She did, too. “Those ancient Greeks, or whoever, must’ve had some imagination, huh? To see those pictures—“ She was babbling, she knew it, she just couldn’t seem to stop around him.

Killian chewed lightly on his bottom lip, trying not to let his face betray the annoyance he felt, noticing Emma’s gaze dart down to the motion before she averted it again. Whatever her problem with him was, he couldn’t say—he’d caught the blasted woman sneaking peeks at him other times as well, so he knew she wasn’t entirely immune to his charms. He couldn’t help letting out a low grumble as he eased back over to the opposite side of the worn quilt.

Emma squinted at him. “ _What_?”

Killian fell back on the blanket, an exasperated sigh escaping him. “You know, we get on well when you forget you hate me. We could have a grand time if you just let things…take their course.”

“Yeah, I had a grand time once.”

“And?”

“Now I have an ex-husband who lives across the country, and tries to use our son as a bargaining chip.” She paused. “And I don’t hate you.” Emma rolled towards him, bending an elbow and resting her head on her fist. “I guess I’m just wary now of cocky, good-looking guys who seem to skate through life on their smile. I know it’s not fair, I just…can’t help it sometimes.” She chanced a glance at Killian, who’d rolled to face her as well, waiting for him to call her a judgmental bitch, rail about how not all men were like her ex—things she’d heard before.

“So,” Killian said, a sly smile stealing over his face, “you think I’m good-looking?”

Now she was the one to flop onto her back, turning again to the sky view. “ _Really_? That’s what you took from all that?”

He shrugged. “I was just focusing on the positive. But in all seriousness, Swan, I—well, don’t automatically decide that I won’t comprehend. You’re afraid to open up, to trust me, I realize that. But…I’m ready to listen when you’re ready to talk.”

She cupped his cold fingertips sticking out of his bandaged hand, gave a quick squeeze. “Thank you.” She looked over; his attention was back on the stars, good arm folded behind his head.  _Well, I’ve opened the floodgates, might as well keep pushing my luck_. “So…what brought you to our little part of the world…Killian?”

“What brought me?”

“Well, you’re obviously not from San Diego, or even America. So….”

“Ah. When I was an oceanographer back in my Navy days, I suppose the travel opportunities that came with that implanted the wanderlust bug in me. Didn’t…didn’t have anything tying me to England, so once my enlistment was up, I went on the road.  Eventually, when I was world-weary and broke and needed a place to rest for awhile, I stopped in Monterey. Beautiful town, worked at the aquarium. But I always had more of a liking for the San Diego harbor. I’d visited on assignment several times, and my background made it easy finding work here, too. And coming on three years later, here I remain—senior wildlife biologist at the Nature Center by day, and gallivanting, star-gazing Scoutmaster by the cover of night.” 

“And how long are you planning on remaining this time?”

“Why, Swan—would you miss me?”

She pretended she hadn’t heard him. “And where does chasing around six-to-ten year olds on permanent sugar highs come in?”

“School administration asked me if I’d like to get involved with the Scouts after they heard my guest Junior Naturalist programs I did. Thought Henry might’ve mentioned it?”

“Nope, I didn’t know. Hey, you never told me  _your_  sign. What is it?”

“I’ll see if you can deduce it by my brief history I just gave you. Trust me, it’s quite fitting.”

She had to think for a moment, truthfully going by her foggy recollections of the Sunday newspaper’s horoscope corner rather than her limited knowledge of astronomy.

Emma turned, gave him an incredulous look. “Pisces?”

His smile was answer enough.

“You’ve got to be shitting me—the fish—a water sign? It’s like you chose it yourself!”

“I like to think the stars aligned just right the day, or night, Killian Jones was conceived.”

Emma only let out a nervous little titter in response, and looked away; no matter how easy-going the mood was now, there would be no ‘conceiving’ talk with  _this_  guy, whatever the context. They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a few minutes more, with Emma interrupting it sporadically to ask about particular stars that caught her eye. Finally, she sat up, hating to break the easy atmosphere.

“Sorry, Killian, but I didn’t stick around for s’mores after dinner,” she said with a rub of her stomach, “and now I’m feeling kinda peckish.” She started to push herself up. “I’m going to go find a snack back at—“

He reached out and laid a hand on her wrist. “Uh-uh, Swan, I think I’ve finally broken through your bristly exterior, and…well, I don’t think I’m ready to have you go running off just yet.”

Emma looked down at his grip, then up at his face, eyes narrowing. “How do you mean?”

“It’s really quite pointless of you to play the fool, lass. You don’t pull off the poker face well.”

“ _Fine_ , I liked talking to you, too, okay? You’re not a complete jerk. Just come along back to camp, too, then.”

Killian wasn’t too keen on that idea, not ready to have anyone who was still awake distract from…whatever this fragile link between them was, that seemed, at last, to be heading in a positive direction. “Despite that glowing review, I’ve a better idea…I do have some chocolate on me. However, I’ll share on only one condition.” He gave her a wink, tapped his lips.

Emma stared. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Scared? Can’t say I blame you, I’m a lot for mere mortals to—“ Emma grabbed with both hands on his jacket collar, and hauled him to her, crushing his lips to hers. There was only a momentary surprised ‘ _mmph_ ’ from him, before he responded, his uninjured hand threading through her hair, keeping her close as he continued what she’d started. Even in the cold, his lips were smooth and soft and  _warm_. The tip of his tongue ran along the seam of her lips, and she opened for him embarrassingly quick. His touch was gentle, but insistent and thorough, angling her head so he could deepen the kiss, and her faithless hormones allowed a needy little moan to escape her throat, only spurring Killian on more. And Emma was  _really_  trying to muster up some kind of reason to stop, or a shred of embarrassment—but then his lips were leaving hers and finding  _that_  spot on her neck, and it all just felt so goddamn  _good_.

Neither were sure how long it went on, but eventually the need to breathe had to trump their desire to continue. They broke away, their exhales coming out in hot pants, turning to white vapor in the frigid air.

“I hope—“ Killian took a moment to try and catch his breath. “I hope you don’t think me some sort of deviant, Swan, but—I’ve wanted to do that for some time.”

She looked down, concentrating on where her hands were fisted into his black-and-gray plaid flannel shirt. “Only if you don’t think I’m some shameless hussy for wanting the same thing.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but then a small figure leapt out of the darkness, landing on the blanket at their feet. Emma let out a shriek.

“Gotcha!” cried Roland, Cub Scout and Scoutmaster Locksley’s son. “I know what you were doing!” he declared. “ _Kiiiiissing_.”

 _Crap_. “N-no we weren’t,” Emma began. “It’s hard to see out here, and—“

“Alright, lad, you’ve caught us. What’ll it take to procure your silence?”

Roland folded his arms. “My daddy already said if I caught you guys kissing this trip, he’d give me a Hershey bar. He said it was ‘just a matter of time’.”

“ _Locksley_ ,” Emma heard Killian growl, but she turned back to the problem at hand. They really did  _not_  need it getting around that the surly Swan woman and Scoutmaster Jones had been caught necking in the great outdoors like a couple of horny teenagers at summer camp.

“Look, kid,” she said, fishing in her back jeans pocket. “What’s one candy bar—when you can buy  _five_?” She held out a crumpled $5 bill, and knew she’d won as Roland’s eyes widened.

“Really?”

“Yup. But only if you keep this our little secret.”

“I promise!”

“Smart kid. Now, scoot!” He did, running pell-mell back to the cluster of tents.

“Tsk, tsk, bribing a child. Bad form, Swan. Though it’s a good thing you stepped in, “ Killian said, taking a slightly smushed package out of his jacket pocket. “I wasn’t too keen on parting with my Milky Way.”

She couldn’t help it; a snort escaped her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Do I still get some?”

He raised a brow. “More?”

She smacked his shoulder, grabbing the bar from his hand. “Of  _this_ , you dope.”

“Well, by all means, help yourself,” Killian replied, waving at it as Emma took a huge bite. She chewed quietly, thinking on how they could move past this.  _But do you really want to move_ past _him—or together, in the same direction_?

“Killian,” Emma began, “Can we…can we talk about this, when we get back to civilization tomorrow?”

“Depends,” he replied, clicking off his headlamp so the only main light on them was the illumination from the moon. “Will there be more of…what we just did? Or are you going to go back to acting like you barely remember my name except when you’re screaming it?” He slapped a hand to his forehead, sliding it down his face. “That came out wrong. What I meant is, I’d rather you didn’t scream it in a bad way, just a good way…oh, bloody hell, just stop listening to me!”

Emma bit her lip to hold her laugh in, tugged his hand down. “I get the gist. But you were right earlier—we get along well when I’m not fighting you tooth and nail.” She linked her fingers with his good hand. “I’m sorry for being a harpy without a reason for so long.”

“You’re not—“ he began; Emma quirked her brow. “Well, maybe you  _were_  a harpy—just a wee bit!”

She took a few steps, her arm stretching behind her, and she turned. Killian flashed a smile that warmed her down to the tips of her hair. “C’mon, Jones—let’s make sure the kids put the fire out properly before I topple into it.”

“Lead the way, Swan.”


	2. A Little Off-Kilter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt request fill via Tumblr: "My neighbor's sister got the wrong house number and barged into my apartment AU"

He’d been meaning to get that damned lock fixed.

The apartment building had been constructed in the 1970s, and in the 40-odd years since, it seemed like the earth had started to sink beneath it, leaving everything (at least in Killian’s unit) just a little off-kilter. The damned brass number on the door wouldn’t stay straight, his bedroom and bathroom doors still clicked shut, but they were nothing a good shove wouldn’t open right up again, and now he feared the front door was headed in the same direction. And that wouldn’t do, no matter how safe the neighborhood was. So he’d finally buckled down, and had the landlord call in to have someone come out this afternoon and fix everything as best as could be down in the older unit. He’d just started preparing a late breakfast, and would probably finish up the new web page he was finessing for that music app company. Such were the benefits of living and working from the same space, in addition to not having to drive into work at the same time as all the corporate sheep, taking your meals when you wanted, peace and—

 

 

The sound of his front door crashing open and bouncing off the foyer wall startled Killian; his grip on the honey jar was lost, and it plummeted right onto the top of his socked foot. “Bloody hell!” His bloody landlord was supposed to notify him before the repairman showed up, and what kind of oaf just barged right—

“Elsa!” A decidedly female voice screeched, footsteps approaching the kitchen. “How many times do I have to tell you, when you want to borrow the car, you—“ The voice stopped short as its owner reached the doorway, and Killian’s annoyance started to fade rapidly as a set of furious, but beautiful, green eyes settle on him. Her shining blonde hair was twisted into a fishtail braid, with a few wisps escaping around the crown of her head (which Killian had the oddest impulse to brush away;  _Mate, get_ ahold _of yourself_!). The anger in her gaze gave way to confusion, and she moved into a kind of bulldog stance, long legs planted wide, arms crossed.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Lass, I believe you’ve—“

“Don’t you ‘lass’ me, buddy. I don’t care if Elsa’s still moving, I explicitly  _told_  her—seriously, who  _are_  you? Are you her boyfriend?” She gave his mussed hair and flannel pajamas a thorough once-over. “Well, obviously you slept over, you must be.“ She leaned back against the doorjamb, the corners of her mouth swiftly turning south. “Oh god, she didn’t even tell me she was seeing anyone! I guess I  _have_  been bitching at her more than usual, but she’s been so disorganized, and—hey, has my sister been complaining about me?” She grabbed onto Killian’s arm.

His head was spinning. Mornings were, for him, a transitionary period to slowly ease into a state of alertness, which it appeared he was not getting the luxury of today.

“You’ve never visited your sister at her apartment before, have you?”

“Well, she only started moving last Tuesday; I think I can be forgiven for that!”

“And she told you the address was—“

“1625 Wolfshire Lane, Unit Nine—“

 _Nine_? Killian bit the inside of his cheek to hold back his grin. The pieces of the puzzle were slowly clicking into place; he remembered helping a similar looking woman across the way last week—in the  _real_ Unit Nine— carry a hideous walrus-on-an-ice floe glass sculpture up the stairs to her new unit. He hadn’t caught her name at the time, but he’d bet money now it had something to do with this mix-up. Well, he ought to at least make it worth his while—after all, stay-at-home contract work for programmers didn’t afford many opportunities to meet pretty girls, even if  _this_  one was making a right pest of herself….

“Oh,  _Elsa_! Why didn’t you say so, darling? She’ll, ah…be back momentarily. Tea?” He handed her the mug on the counter, and started rifling through the cupboard for another one.

She took it, squinting at him suspiciously. “You seem to have made yourself cozy pretty quick, Mr.—?”

“Killian. Killian Jones. And you’re—?”

She rolled her eyes. “She didn’t even  _mention_  me? We’re so having a long talk when she gets—sorry, it’s Emma.”

Emma. It suited her. “Now that I think on it, she has mentioned her petulant” –he made a stab in the dark—“ _little_  sister.” He grinned at Emma’s indignant snort, and continued. “But she did think we’d get on famously.”

“Is that right? Unfortunately for  _you_ , I’m not easily swayed…Killian. You’ll just have to wait for me to form my own opinions.”

He gave her a haughty little bow, and turned to pop an English muffin in the toaster. “I’d expect nothing less, given what I know about you.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “And just what do you mean by that?!”

“Please, darling. Even if I hadn’t heard of you before now—which I  _have_ —you’ve got everything one needs to know written all over your face.”

She crossed her arms again, but relaxed against the doorjamb. “Really now. And what’re you reading?”

“Oh, you’re very close to your family—small though it is. Just your sister and perhaps…a mother? You’ve got just a few friends, and make new ones with difficulty, I gather. But when someone’s finally earned your trust, you’d fight to the death for them. You’ve probably never been in love, but if you have, it ended badly. Oh, and gathering by those little glances you keep stealing when you think I’m not looking, you find me rather striking.” He gave her a wink in closing.

Emma grunted. “Modest. And that would be our  _adoptive_  mother. Otherwise…not bad,” she said grudgingly.

The toasted halves popped up, and she gave a little jump. Killian walked over with a plate. “Shall I butter your muffin, lass?” he asked, gaze widened innocently.

“Are you always this forward with your girlfriends’ sisters?”

“Now, I wouldn’t say that. We’re…acquaintances.”

“I sure as hell don’t let my acquaintances sleep over. Well, I mean, not unless—“ She cut off, holding her hands out. “God, why am I telling you this? I’m shutting up now.” She slipped her phone out of her pocket, glanced at the screen. “Still no word from Elsa. Would you be cool with it if I hung out until she gets here? Or have you got things to do?”

Hmm, sit around adding details to his design while waiting for the repairman— _or_ , continue to stealthily uncover more of what this blonde firecracker who’d come out of nowhere (heaven, maybe?) was all about. Sick Beatz could wait another day.

“I’ve—er, Elsa’s got Netflix. Do you fancy Bob’s Burgers?”

Her radiant answering grin told him he’d made the right decision.

* * *

They were already three episodes in, and Emma wasn’t even checking for missed texts anymore. She seemed to prefer to annoy Killian with imitations of the various characters’ accents, while he just tsked and pretended to be annoyed and  _when had she slid her feet into his lap_? Well, no complaints on his end.

“Another one?” Killian asked, hand on the remote.

“Why not? You know, Killian, I’m actually…enjoying myself.”

“Why so surprised?”

Emma shrugged. “I guess I’m not used to—“ She gave a small jerk, and fished around her pocket. “Dammit, I got a call from Elsa. Left it on silent.”

“Don’t be bashful, you can say you wanted it on silent to enjoy our time together.”

She just shook her head, gave him a pinch, and gave her sister a call back. Killian started sinking back into the couch cushions.

“Elsa? Well yeah, I told you I’d help today, but you still took the—yeah, I’ve been waiting for you for hours now! What’d you mean, ‘where am I?’. I’m at your apartment!”

Her brows furrowed; Killian bit his lip. “I’m right here, what’re you talking about? Yes. With Kil—what? In the doorway? There’s no way…” She turned, glared at him, and bolted off the couch, making for the front door. Killian was hot on her heels as she flung his door open for the second time that day, looking around wildly. The woman from last week—Elsa, he knew now—was on her porch across the way, and ended the call when Emma walked to the top of his stairs.

Emma spun slowly, glancing first at him, then the apartment number. Killian grinned sheepishly, placed the tip of his finger on the end of the “9”, and gave it a 180 degree clockwise turn—back into a “6”.

“I couldn’t resist, darling. How could I let you go that easily?”

Elsa gave an enthusiastic wave. “Hi, Mr. Jones!” she called. “Thanks for the help again the other day! Emma, what are you—“ Her eyes widened as she took in Emma’s flushed face, Killian’s pajamas. “Emma, I’d really appreciate it if you let me settle into the new place first before you start schtupping my neighbor!”

“ _What_?! We weren’t—“

“Yeah, sure.” She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can—can you just get over here and start helping—“

Emma turned back to him, mouth set in a firm line, but a twinkle in her eye. She rose up on her toes, lips at his ear, one hand on his collar.

“This isn’t over, Jones.”

“Oh, I’m counting on that, love.”

He was  _really_  glad he hadn’t had that lock fixed any sooner.


	3. A Hard Day's Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CS 1960s AU: Hippie!Emma & roadie!Killian meet the day he’s in town to set up for the Beatles’ last U.S. concert. Rated ‘M’ for some snoo-snoo & mild/mentions of drug use.

_San Francisco, 1966_

"It's rude to stare, laddie. Though, that's a sweet little crackling, wouldn't ya say?"

Killian turned a withering stare on Will, his fellow drifter in the musical arena. "Sod off, you."

"Don't think I'm taking on your duties so you can run off with a local chippie for the rest of the day, mate. We've still got—"

Killian gave him a hard nudge in the shoulder, squinting through the smoky cloud swirling around the crowd in the Old Ship Saloon to make sure he didn't lose sight of that blonde head. "I don't know about you, but I've got all my ducks in a row for this hullabaloo." He watched as the object of his fascination slipped out the door of the dank watering hole, out into the still-early day, finishing off his rum with one more swig, and slammed his glass onto the wooden bartop. "Cover me, aye? I did for you in Seattle and L.A."

"I'd have to take the van," Will finally complied reluctantly. "How're you going to get back to Candlestick? Gonna have your new girlfriend take you?"

"I'll worry about that, mate," Killian said, with a harder-than-necessary clap on Will's back, making him sputter. "You're a real—"

"Shut it, just be back at eight-thirty. I ain't about to lug those speakers around by meself."

"Uh-huh." Killian made for the door.

"Eight-thirty, Killian! At the _latest_!"

* * *

He stumbled out into the hazy sunshine and chilly current blowing into the Embarcadero, looking this way and that down the empty street. Damn it all to hell, he'd lost her. He spun around desperately in the same spot for a couple rotations, before letting out a deep sigh and preparing to go join back up with Will and get as functionally drunk as he possibly could before the show tonight.

"Looking for someone?" A breathy murmur tickled his ear, and he startled. When he turned, there she was—the golden girl.

He forced a neutral tone. "Not safe to sneak up on strangers, lass. What if I'd been well versed in the martial arts? You could've been irrevocably maimed."

She crossed her arms, leaning back into the brick wall behind her. " _You_?" she said incredulously. "I bet I could take you down with one hand tied behind my back." She raised a brow, jutting her chin out in mock-challenge.

He could believe it, if those shapely, toned arms of hers were anything to go by. And if he'd thought she was pretty in the dim lighting of the dive, in the outdoor late-morning light she was decidedly breathtaking. The brown suede fringe that fell from where her top—if it could even be called a top—curved inwards under her lovely bust did nothing to disguise a pale, slim stomach, and the thighs of her tight jeans were so ripped, Killian wondered what the point was in wearing pants at all. Her blonde hair waved loose around her shoulders, a thin suede band matching her top winding around the crown of her head. Bloody hell, what a fox—if this woman ever deigned to walk around publicly in only what whichever creator-that-be had given her, she'd have the world in the palm of her hand. But that little smirk she was sending his way lit a need within him that Killian knew was more that physical. He wanted to  _know_  her, and he still didn't even know her name.

"Do you make it a habit of stalking strange chicks around the city, Scotland Yard?"

"If I'm a stalker, I'm not a very good one. I didn't even catch your name."

There was the smirk again. "You wouldn't have, because I didn't give it."

"Tit for tat?" Killian implored. "Mine's Killian. Jones."

She gave him a once-over, then sighed. "You seem harmless enough. I'm Emma…Swan."

 _A beautiful name for a beautiful woman_  was a split-second from falling off his tongue, but this lass looked like she'd heard it all before. He held out his hand, and she slid her cool palm into his. "I'd wager you're just as graceful as your avian namesake."

Emma laughed. "Original; I'll give you that. What brings you around these parts, Oscar Wilde?"

"Eh?"

She gestured in front of her mouth. "The way you talk, it's like you're from some…bygone times, man. Which I totally dig."

"Well, thanks," Killian replied uncertainly. "I'm, ah, only here for today. I'm setting up for the Beatles concert down in Candle—"

"I know about it." Her eyes grew hard. "So you were just scouting for some American tail before you hit the skies back to merry old England? Listen up, cat, I know what I look like, but—"

"It's not like that!" Killian said, frustrated. He couldn't tell her that  _something_  had pushed him to go out and meet her, talk to her—she'd think he was a nutter. "I mean—it's just that—you intrigued me." He looked down, scuffed at the sidewalk with his worn sneaker. "Have you—have you got plans today?"

She glanced back at the saloon. "I don't know…I was barbacking, but it's early, and they won't mind—"

Some strange fellow in faded bellbottoms and oily locks that swept his shoulders waltzed up then, a burlap sack slung over his shoulder. The practically salivating glance he slid all over Emma had Killian's hackles go up with instantaneous dislike. "Hey Emma, you off already? We got a good haul, some whole turnips, and—" His gaze narrowed, taking in Killian with obvious resentment.

"Who's this nobody?" The grease monkey slid an arm into a possessive hold around Emma's waist, which she shimmied out of, to Killian's delight.

"Down, boy," she chastised. "Killian, this is Walsh, my—well, my nothing since we're all  _free_  people!" She smiled at her quip, while the Walsh fellow looked disappointed. Killian almost felt sorry for the git then; who  _wouldn't_ want to be claimed by Emma Swan?

A girl with red-streaked dark hair and a tall blonde man in round purple spectacles walked up to join them, matching sacks over their shoulders, too.

"We're headed back to the bus, everything's—well,  _hel-lo_!" the dark-haired girl said, sizing up Killian.

"And this would be Ru—"

"Call me Red," the girl said, grabbing his hand from his side and shaking it vigorously.

"Right," Emma continued. "And this is Victor. Guys, Killian's in town for that concert. He's from England."

Victor peered bloodshot eyes at him over his spectacles. "England, huh? Far out, man. That Loch Ness monster still terrorizing the place?"

"Uh—not that I know of," Killian said, not sure if he was being taken for a ride, but Victor just nodded seriously.

"Good, good. Glad to hear it."

Red jerked her head down the street. "C'mon, let's get home. Gotta start boiling up the spoils."

"Coming with, Killian?" Emma asked, threading her fingers through his and giving a small tug.

There was really only one right answer.

* * *

Killian clambered into the mustard-yellow VW van after Emma, settling down on a velvet cushion in the back next to her, receiving a death glare from Walsh in the process.

"So what's all this about?" He gestured towards their sacks.

"We go around to all the restaurants we can, and take what they aren't using," Red explained. "Then we cook it up, and go feed the homeless in the park." She gestured towards Golden Gate Park as they drove past. She shrugged. "We get help from some of the churches around the Haight."

"The what?"

Emma stared at him. "Oh man, folks, Killian's only got one day here. Victor, stop!" The van screeched to a halt, throwing the rest of them against the back of the front two seats.

"I just had a rad idea; Double-oh-seven here can't go back home without seeing as much of the best city in the world as possible."

Killian raised a brow. "'Best city in the world'? Right, I'd have to see it to believe it, lass."

"It's settled then." Emma leaned over, and slid the van door open. "C'mon, Killian. I'll meet up with the rest of you later."

"Maybe I should—" Walsh began.

"Don't infringe, brother," Victor said, then leaned out the window. "You toke, Slick?" He handed Killian two joints, which he slid into his pocket, thinking he might do well to settle his nerves if he was being guided around solo by Emma.

* * *

 _What was she doing_? Emma Swan had just done something completely, ridiculously impulsive, and despite the carefree nature she tried to project, Emma Swan didn't  _do_  impulsive. Sure, he was pretty—okay,  _really_ —good-looking, but so what? There was no shortage of choice men in these parts. But somehow the whole combination of floppy black hair, scuffed leather vest and pants, accent, and those blue eyes—yeah, as soon as he'd turned that puppy-dog gaze on her, she'd been a goner. But the Haight has been her stomping grounds for a few years now, a familiar, worn-in coat, and she led Killian to Psychedelic Records with swagger.

"I hope I haven't put you out, love—"

"It's fine. I live just two blocks down, at Baker and Oak."

He gave her a teasing grin just before he followed her through the doorway. "You know, darling, record shops are no newfangled idea in the Isles."

She jabbed him in the side. "You're quick with the wisecracks, aren't you, Jones?"

He looked around at walls that looked like buckets of paint had been tossed on them at random, 'Sound of Silence' playing softly on a record behind the counter.

"Hey, Rudy." Emma nodded at the Rasta behind the counter and kept walking towards the back. "I unpack the new stuff here sometimes," she explained to Killian's questioning look, pushing back a curtain to a small booth with a vinyl player and several boxes of records.

"Sounds like you keep fairly busy."

"I try." She selected a record, and to his surprise, opera started filtering out, mixing with the faint notes of Simon & Garfunkel coming from the front of the store.

Emma had leaned back against the wall. "It's from  _La Bohéme_. Boss, isn't it? They performed at the opera house here last year. I tried to sneak in, but I got caught."

Killian grinned, picturing her beautiful face flushed with unrighteous indignation. "What bollocks, trying to keep art and culture from an irrepressible rogue like you."

She closed her eyes, smiling. "I showed them; snuck into  _Tosca_  a few months later. Do you like it?"

"Very much," he said lowly, the tone making her look at him again. He was giving her a focused look, far more intense than she was comfortable with. She looked down nervously, pulled at a loose thread on her jeans. "Hmph. Aren't you contractually obligated to say you love the Beatles, or something?"

"I doubt they give a fig what us tech jockeys actually like, but sure—I like them. Don't you?"

Emma shrugged her shoulders. "Not really my scene, to be honest." She turned when, out of the corner of her eye, she could tell Killian was sitting stock-still. "What's your bag?"

"You don't like the  _Beatles_? I didn't think it was legal for anyone in the free world not to like— _love_ —them! Don't tell me—you're a Stones fan."

She wrinkled her nose. "The both of them, they're just so…so… _corporate_. Jimi, Janis—those are  _real_  musicians, man."

Killian shook his head. "They've got just as big a racket going on, records and posters and what-not. You want a pure music source, go listen to that fellow we passed on the corner playing his mandolin for spare change." He cocked a brow when her mouth opened in protest. "You know I'm right, love."

She huffed and rolled her eyes, but honestly, it was a breath of fresh air. When was the last time a man had argued a point with her? Usually they were too preoccupied trying to win their way into her pants. She'd been to college, been on the streets, been on the beatnik scene, but everywhere she went, men were, sadly, predictable.

Except this one.

She wanted to know what made him tick, if she could manage to keep him at bay at the same time.

* * *

Emma settled onto the top of a grassy hill she'd led Killian to within Golden Gate Park. She loved the view from the spot, pointing out her friends' makeshift kitchen set up along one piece of sidewalk to Killian once he'd sat next to her.

She clasped her hands around her knee. "Tell me something, Killian."

"Such as?"

"I dunno—we've only got the day. I want to know what you're about." She did to, dammit, more than anyone she'd ever met before. And she didn't know why. "What's back in the U.K.?"

 _Nothing_ , he wanted to say, but that would sound pathetic. "Oh…what everyone else has, I suppose. Mates, a crash pad, this gig—"

"Family?" she asked, almost hesitantly. Her hand skimmed along the ground restlessly when he didn't respond, eyes following the movement. "Sorry, you don't—don't have to say anything if you don't want to…I'm just too much of a fuckin' flap-jaw sometimes—"

"I had a brother," Killian cut in abruptly.

"Had?"

"He's dead. At least, everyone thinks so." He glanced at her, and decided to keep going. He didn't really think he could stop now if he wanted to; he'd never talked about  _him_  to anyone, and it was like he'd turned a bloody faucet on.

"He—he didn't have to do it. Britain decided to keep out of 'Nam, you know, but Liam—he was, he was just such a bloody fucking Boy Scout, he went down to Australia where they'd let him enlist, and…."

Emma propped herself up on an elbow, looking down worriedly at him. "And?"

"That was four years ago. Two years ago, his base lost—lost all communication with him. Haven't heard anything since." He closed his eyes, concentrated on the rhythm of his breaths—in, out, in, out—closing his eyes. He felt the weight of Emma's head settle onto his chest, her hand lightly touching his side, not saying a word. It was much more of a comfort than one of the hollow "I'm sorry's" he'd grown accustomed to. It didn't matter if the person meant it; in the end, it was so meaningless, changing nothing.

Neither could pinpoint how long they lay like that, Emma unconsciously stroking down his ribs, Killian's fingers combing through her hair. Emma looked down, playing with a loose button on his vest. She shouldn't, she ought to just let things be, once you revealed to much to another, they had the upper hand—

"I didn't mean to be a downer," she said lowly. "I—I don't have relatives, either. Not by blood. The cats you met earlier, they're my true family. The one I came from gave me up."

Killian's hand paused in its ministrations. "All I can say to that, is that they had to be bloody fools."

She gave a soft chuckle. "I 'spose everything's worked out. I tried the whole respectable racket for awhile, higher education—didn't jive. Then I met Red when at one of their free kitchens—I used to be one of their customers, when I was fending for myself." Emma paused, thinking back. That whole lifestyle seemed eons ago. "And—and from there, I guess I just…found a niche."

"Sounds like you did the right thing for you, love. And looks like everything turned out roses."

"Seems most people have a different definition of the 'right thing', which I tried doing for awhile."

"Meaning?"

"I enrolled at SF State, started going to classes—but it was all lies, man. Those people, the administration—they just wanna turn this generation into their carbon copies, a herd of mindless sheep. Especially the chicks, y'know? It was nothing but a fucking marriage market. Well, you know what? I'd had enough of hearing what I was supposed to be doing. Why should I live up to other people's expectations of me? It never got me anywhere before."

"I get the feeling you get along just fine not giving a wit what anyone thinks," Killian said admiringly.

"But I did once. I fucked the guys who flattered me, took the drugs I was offered—"

"Not anymore, though?"

"No. I've got my group, and…the thing is, they don't pressure me. But—but sometimes I…"

Killian ran a hand soothingly through her hair. "You don't have to bare all for me, love." He gave her a wiggle of his eyebrows. "Unless you want to, in any context."

She twisted around and shoved at his chest, but laughed, swiveling and settling the back of her head against his shoulder. "I mean, even though everything's copacetic, sometimes I still think…think they'll…" Fuck, that felt amazing; she was dangerously close to purring. "I think they'll realize that I'm not the above-the-fray, cool chick they think I am—that they'll find out I'm still just the lost little girl I've always been."

Killian continued playing with her hair, and she let her eyes fall shut. He was silent for so long, she wondered if he was figuring out how to extricate himself from the basketcase he no doubt thought she was now.

"Feel free to tell me to keep my nose out of it, but your friends—at least the ones I met—seem utterly taken with you. Especially that slimy wanker."

One side of her mouth quirked up. "Walsh? He's alright, when you get to know him. I've never…er, I've never gone all the way with him, if that's what you're thinking." God, she wanted to smack herself in the forehead; could she sound anymore full of herself?

Surprisingly, she heard a soft exhale  _whoosh_  out of him. "Well, that's good news to me."

She pulled at a few blades of grass, suddenly shy. Killian flipped the bit of hair he'd been fiddling with over her shoulder. "All done."

Emma looked down at the tip of the braid, then darted a glance up at Killian. He'd  _braided_  her hair. Had this guy fallen from the sky, or what?

"Bloody hell, I forgot the finishing touch!" he reached out, plucked a yellow dandelion, and pulled it through the bottom strands of the braid. " _Now_  it's finished."

"You're—you're unreal, you know that?" And before he could respond, she'd surged forward to press her lips to his, hands sliding up to anchor in his thick hair. His arms encircled her waist, almost pulling her into his lap while continuing the kiss. Killian closed his eyes, just trying to take in the very essence of Emma—she was warm, soft, a faint scent of patchouli tickling his nose. He groaned as she rocked her hips against him, feeling his pants start to tighten uncomfortably. The only thing that brought them back to the present was a loud, disapproving cluck, and their heads swiveled to see two Hare Krishnas continuing along the path, heads shaking at the overly affectionate public display.

Emma groaned. "Never thought I'd be chastised by people who dress in bright orange robes and carry tambourines around everyday."

"Take it as an accomplishment," Killian joked, and she laughed, leaning down to continue her kissing assault on his neck.

" _Emma_ ," he said warningly. "We'd best stop this, or I'm liable to take you right out here on the grass for innocent eyes to see."

A little thrill zinged through her, and she clenched her thighs together even as she placed a palm against his chest. "Well, we can't have that—at least, not yet." She got to her feet and turned away before he could see her stupidly wide smile, making her way back along the walkway to where her friends were spooning out the dregs of their vegetable soup.

"Red, you mind if I beat it with the van for a few hours?  _This_  guy—" –she bumped her hips into his, and Killian felt a frisson of pure heat shoot to his groin at the playful gesture—"—has got places to go, people to see."

" _I_ mind," Walsh interrupted. "You barely meet that dip today, and—"

"Can it, Walsh," Victor broke in. "Sure, Emma. We got cleaned out today, nothing we can't carry a few blocks." He gave Killian a knowing wink over her head.

Emma rolled her eyes. "Subtle, Victor. Don't worry, I'll hightail back as soon as—"

"Don't sweat it," said Red. "We might be hoofing it to a happenin' anyway. I'll leave the address on the fridge if you guys wanna join up when you get back."

Emma gave her friend a loud kiss on the forehead, grabbed Killian's hand, and took off for the van.

* * *

They flew through Daly City, the van's tires squealing through Candlestick Park's parking lot at eight-forty-five, a shorter, wide-eyed man running at them from the entrance, hurling such Britishisms at Killian, Emma could only guess at his tone that they were insults.

"Relax, ya bugger, I made it—"

"Barely!" He turned, gave Emma a quick, stiff bow. "I'd be Will, lovely. Now help me hurry this bloke along." The three linked arms, Killian in the middle, running through the gates and up to the stage. Emma parked herself on an empty guitar case backstage, after Killian ensured her it'd be alright, trying her best to blend into the background for the hour that Killian was zipping to and fro getting everything prepped. No matter how frantic he seemed as he zoomed by, he kept pulling himself up short to capture her lips in a kiss before taking off again. She had to chuckle through her pleased blush; he reminded her of a whirling Looney Tune. After everything was set, a brief silence settled over the crowd, and the first notes of 'Rock and Roll Music' started to drift back to her. Killian appeared from behind a black curtain, plopping next to her.

"Do you—do you want to take off?" he asked, taking her hand. It was such a simple gesture, but just the feel of her smaller hand in his large, warm one—it felt  _safe_.

"Not just yet," she murmured, her head falling against his shoulder. "You worked on making all this happen—enjoy it."

She felt his hand cup her shoulder. "I've enjoyed spending the day with you. Shame…shame I'm taking off back to London tomorrow."

Emma was suddenly cold. "I guess. But hey…it's—that's the way these things go."

"It was more than that, and you know it," he said irritably, grabbing her chin and turning her head to fuse his mouth to hers. He gave her that puppy look again. "Can we just—just enjoy the here and now? I'd take whatever you could spare, than nothing at all."

Ugh,  _why_  was she having such a hard time with this? She was a seize-the-moment gal, but she had a suspicion if she gave Killian  _everything_ …well, she might not recover as quickly as she usually did with other cats. Still, he had a point; better to enjoy what she could of him with the remains of this day, rather than zilch. Right?

Emma captured his lips with renewed purpose, tongue delving into his mouth, feeling and tasting all she could. When they pulled apart, his pupils were nearly black, breathing shallow.

"I hope you don't have any objection to cutting out of this joint  _now_."

"Watch me lay a patch, Jones," she said, taking off at a top-speed run for the lot.

* * *

She pulled the van up to a crumbling, green-trimmed Victorian that had definitely seen better days, sliding an arm around Killian's waist, and walked up the front steps.

"It looks…dark," he observed, pushing open the door.

"It's  _fine_ ," she insisted. "They're probably all at that party— _oh_!" Killian had grabbed her around the waist, settling her on top of the kitchen counter, fastening his lips to her neck. God, he was really into this, he was actually whimper—no, wait. That was coming from her, _she_  was the one whimpering. Emma felt more of a needy mess than she had in years; she gripped his hair firmly, pulling his head back.

"Are you  _sure_ you have to leave tomorrow morning?"

His thumbs rubbed gently at her sides. "Positive, unfortunately. Listen, lass—I'd understand if you didn't—didn't want this to go any further tonight, as I'm going—"

" _Killian_." She squeezed his hips between her thighs, eliciting a low moan from him. "Take me upstairs. Last room on the right."

He scooped her up with enough zeal to make her shriek, taking the steps two at a time, bursting through the beaded curtain hanging from the doorframe. He tossed her onto the bed, advancing on her, blue eyes glittering in the near-darkness. Emma's breath caught; she couldn't ever remember a man looking at her with such unadulterated  _hunger_  before.

"C'mere," she whispered, pulling at his vest. "I need you—need to  _feel_  you. I want to remember this…remember—"

Killian reached out, pulling that ridiculously skimpy top over her head in one swift movement, laid her back and lowered his face to her, skimming his scruff lightly over her skin, starting at her throat.

Emma squirmed as he got— _slowly_ —closer to her now-bare breasts. "Fuck, Killian,  _touch_  me," she keened, arching her chest up towards his mouth.

"Greedy woman," he muttered against her skin, before taking a pert nipple in his mouth, giving it a hard suck while Emma's head fell back with a soft sigh.

"Mmm, good, that's good," she mumbled, still arching herself into him. "Only—"

He pulled away. "Only  _what_?!"

"We're still wearing too many clothes," she finished, and Killian laughed, pulling off her jeans and cotton knickers, and undoing his own vest and pants in record time. Emma pushed his thin T-shirt off, throwing it to a corner of her room.

He glanced down at himself, then at her. "Good, only—"

" _Jones_."

Killian smiled. "Only, you're going to watch me make love to you, and I want to see you, too. It's too dark in here." He pulled a matchbook out of his discarded pants, lighting the purple, half-melted candles on Emma's nightstand. "Better."

He sat back on the edge of her bed, pulling her into straddling his lap, her knees tight on either side of his thighs, his cock's swollen head rubbing against where she needed him most. She looked down, eyes widening. "Wow. I mean—you're—"

He gave a short nod. "I know."

Emma laughed, gave him brisk swat on the back of the head. "Arrogant bastard," she stated, then slid fully down onto him without warning, Killian sucking in a sharp breath. "Bloody— _fuck_ —I—"

"I know," she teased, rising back up, starting to undulate above him. His hands grasped onto Emma's hips tightly, pushing her down as far as possible, thrusting upwards at the same time. Her nails dug into his shoulders, head tilting back. "Goddammit, I—" She cut off as one of his hands drifted above where they were joined together, pressing her clit beneath the obscuring blonde curls. He rubbed faster, harder. "That's it, Swan…come for me." Her breathing grew ragged, and Killian didn't sound far behind. "Emma,  _please_." He gave one more thrust, nipped at her breast, just as she ground her hips down.

"Fuck!" she moaned, her muscles spasming around him, Killian biting down at the juncture of her shoulder and neck as he spent himself inside her. They both fell in a limp jumble onto her comforter, panting heavily.

Emma weakly pushed her sweaty hair back from her forehead, holding her other hand to her racing heart. Well,  _that_  was a first. She turned her head to find Killian staring at her already, a doped-up smile plastered across his face.

"Killian…Killian, that was—"

" _Not_  a one-time thing," he growled, pulling her to him again.

* * *

One bleary eye blinked open, squinting at the sunlight coming through the tie-dyed scarves that served as Emma's curtains. What the hell had—? Oh…right. She'd met a total stranger, confided things she'd never told another soul, been fucked senseless throughout the night, finally enjoying Victor's joints afterwards, and now—

Her arm slid across the bed, feeling for a warm body. But Killian was gone. Emma blinked harder, clearing the sleep from her vision. Well, no use coming all unglued over—

Her hand landed on a slip of paper lying on the other pillow, and she sat up to unfold it.

_Emma,_

_I tried to wake you before Will came to book us to the airport, but you sleep like the dead, love. Perhaps I had something to do with it…? Anyways, I do believe the tourist guide I had this trip didn't show me the full array of sights she could have, so good thing she was a stone fox to make up for it._

_I'm posting you a wee present, but you_ _must_ _promise not to open it til I give you a ring. Killian_

"Cryptic," she grumbled, tucking the note under her pillow, trying and failing to be annoyed. All that ended up registering was that she was going to get a call from him soon. She could close her eyes and pretend he was sitting right next to her.

* * *

"Cheer up, ya mope," Red said brightly, coming into the kitchen while Emma was cutting up a potato for that day's soup beat. "You've been in a mood for almost two weeks now."

"Mind your own beeswax," Emma shot back, slamming the knife down in a particularly savage  _chop_.

"Bet I know what'd make you feel bet-ter," Red sing-songed, dancing from Emma's left side to her right. "Maybe a let-ter from loverboyyy…" She waved a long envelope in Emma's face.

"Gimme!" Emma snatched it out of Red's hand, clutching it to her chest. Ugh, it killed her not to just rip the damn thing open right then and there. She puzzled at it, turning it over. It seemed pretty flat for it to be called a "present". God, she hoped he hadn't sent money;  _that_  would be embarrassing.

"What're you waiting for?" Red questioned. "Open it!"

"I can't…he said he needed to call me before I did."

"You cats are touched in the head," Red stated, rolling her eyes as she left the room.

* * *

It turned out she didn't have to wait long; Walsh unenthusiastically announced in the common room not three hours later that there was an _international_  caller on the line for  _Emma,_  and to be quick about it because everyone wasn't taking up extra jobs this week to pay for her fancy friends to call her. Emma gave him a shove as she walked into the kitchen where the wall phone was.

"Took you long enough," she greeted him.

"Sorry, love. International mail is frightfully slow, and tracking it, well…I look forward to the advent of more enlightened communication and parcel transportation methods."

"Did you ring me up to talk about technological progress in this day and age, or can I open my damn letter now?"

He laughed. "Eager little lass, are you?" She heard him swallow slowly, wondered if he was nervous for some reason. "Alright then…have at it."

She slit it open with a butterknife, pulling a sturdy folded paper out, and opened it.

"Killian…this is a plane ticket. From SFO to Heathrow."

"Aye."

"And it's one-way." Now it was her turn to swallow slowly.

"That's true—I miss you terribly; I did even before my bloody plane took off down the runway. As soon as I got my funds from the tour, I wired to get you that ticket."

She tried to force a laugh out. "And you were in such a hurry, you forgot to make it a round-trip?"

"No…I just…I wanted you to decide when you wanted to leave. If you wanted to leave the day after you came, or the year after, or five years….Or you don't have to leave at all. You also don't have to come; it's up to you. But…I'd really like if you came."

She swiped the back of her hand quickly across her eyes. Shit, if she stuck with this cat, she'd end up a barely-functional pile of mush on the floor. "Killian…"

"Please. Say 'yes'. One day wasn't enough for me to get my fill of Emma Swan. Between you and me…I don't think my lifetime would be enough." There was a long pause. "Is that too much?"

* * *

She boarded the early-morning United flight the next day, London-bound.


	4. Something to Talk About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for this came from a Tumblr comment about a pair of real-life teachers shooting quips at each other, and a wish to see that in CS form. And no, the title is not from the crappy Julia Roberts movie, it was taken from the Shania Twain song.

In hindsight, she'd been no more mature than her high-schoolers in starting the whole rivalry. But from the first glimpse Emma Swan had got of Killian Jones, British transplant to Storybrooke High, during the informal meet-and-greet in the teacher's lounge, she knew—he was trouble with a capital T, and not just because of his unfairly good looks. He had that air about him that just gave off supreme self-assuredness, and when those blue eyes focused on her, she felt like a police spotlight had just frozen her in place.

Unfortunately, there was no way Emma could slink off unnoticed; Principal Mills was going down the line, introducing everyone.

"Emma Swan," he'd murmured in a downright lascivious tone, bringing the back of her hand to his mouth. Who still  _did_  that? "A pleasure."

Once she was sure she could form words again without sounding breathless, she tried to be blandly friendly. "So…I hear you're coming in to make sure the neighborhood dogs stop howling every fifth and sixth period."

He'd grinned. "I do seem to have a skill for drawing out peoples' innermost talents, music-wise. You know," he'd gone, stepping closer, voice dropping, "I wouldn't be opposed to you stopping by and banging on my drums sometime."

 _Oh, it's on_.

* * *

Certainly, considering the types she'd faced before, Jones was harmless. But Emma considered it a public service of hers to put cocky, preening bastards in their place. She'd had enough of them to last a lifetime, and to have to work in close quarters with one five days a week? It was best to nip this kind of behavior in the bud. Or match it head-to-head.

The Friday of the first football game of the season, he'd led the band through the halls, for "school spirit." Emma stormed out of her classroom at the noise, just as they were passing. But instead of just demanding why he felt the need to parade the school mid-day, which wouldn't ruffle him a bit, she went with a different tactic.

"Blimey, guv'na," she called loudly. "You and your lot be makin' a right blooming racket 'round these parts."

She felt completely rewarded when he paused, lips parted in surprise. Though, of course, he didn't stumble for long.

"Why, Swan," he said, in a horrible imitation of a Southern twang, "I'd have thought such a red-blooded  _Amurrikan_  gal would champion the celebration of the national pastime. I even heard we'd be graced with the presence of your pet bald eagle. Don't all you Yanks have one?"

She bit the inside of her lip firmly; he would  _not_  be graced with a smile. " _Baseball_  is the national pastime, you limey twit. Fluffy wouldn't deign to get off his perch for a mere  _football_  game."

He'd motioned for the band to carry on ahead, while he ducked his head down to her quickly, hot breath tickling her ear. "You're playing with fire, Ms. Swan."

* * *

And so it went, turning into a kind of routine not only for them, but the faculty and student body, too. Who would best the other today—Swan or Jones?

"Tally-ho, Mr. Jones! Fancy a crumpet and a spot of tea?"

"Only if you teach your students proper spelling, Swan! It's c-o-l-o-u-r, not c-o-l-o-r!" he called, back, hand over his heart as though he were about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

Killian looked thoroughly pleased no matter who got the most laughs, but the man himself was wearing Emma down. Not only did he have an answer for every  _damn_  comment, but…well, she wasn't positive about the men's dress code, but surely it was just plain…plain  _distracting_ , to have that much chest hair showing at all times. Or how he'd just  _beam_  at her after one of their exchanges before he went off in the other direction, or twirl a finger up through one of her curls, and laugh when she'd smack his hand away.

* * *

"He likes you, you know." Mary Margaret set her Tupperware down on the table with a distracting  _plunk_. "Though the way you needle him, I have no clue why."

Emma raised her copy of  _The Iliad_  until it was level with her face. "I don't have any idea what you're yakking about."

The nose-buried-in-a-thick-book gag worked on most people to let Emma enjoy her breaks in peace, but after being friends for so long, Mary Margaret was wise to her tricks.

The other woman let out an exasperated huff, reached out and pulled the book down. "Don't play dumb, Emma—you don't have the poker face for it."

Emma sighed, fixing Mary Margaret with a defeated look. " _Et tu, Brute_? You can't possibly believe all the horseshit these other gullible trolls are spreading around. And, plus—"

"Furthermore," Mary Margaret interrupted. "I think  _you_  like him, too."

Emma's mouth hung open like a goldfish taking in oxygen. "I—what? You're a little young to be off your rocker already, Mary Margaret."

"Oh, please, Emma. You're the equivalent of that preschooler on the playground giving an Indian burn to their little crush, under the guise of hating their guts."

She slunk down in her chair. Now  _that_  was just wholly off-base—wet willies had always been more her style.

"Fine, deny away," Mary Margaret conceded when Emma stayed silent, taking out her fork and napkin. "I'll back off—for now. Going to Homecoming tomorrow?"

"Right. Just what I need—having to stare at Killian Jones leading the marching band to kick off the game, at halftime, and at the end. Not to mention all the stupid little gestures he'll throw my way. Just the thing to  _not_ get more fuel for the rumors."

Mary Margaret shrugged. "You can sit with me and David," she said, referring to her P.E. teacher husband.

" _No_  thanks. I have absolutely no desire to be a part of yours and David's matchmaking schemes."

Mary Margaret gave her head a little toss, a flush creeping up her neck from being called out. "Well, for what it's worth, he agrees with me."

* * *

"Alright, guys," Emma clapped her hands loudly. "I'm sure everyone's mind is on the game and dance this weekend, so I'll try to make today as short and sweet as possible—as long as you cooperate."

A girl towards the front held up her hand. "Ms. Swan? Are you going tomorrow, too?"  
She gave an amused snort. "Sorry, Grace. Sports aren't really my thing."

"But she definitely won't want to miss the band's numbers," another student said in a low voice, earning a few snickers from the other boys around him.

Emma stopped short in front of the offender, crossing her arms, fixing him with her most no-nonsense glare. "And just what do you mean by that, Martin?"

"I…uh…" the kid took a gulp, looked right, then left, searching for backup. Nobody would meet his gaze; everyone knew not to cross Ms. Swan. He was on his own. "I mean, like…aren't you and Mr. Jones, you know…a thing?"

Emma was sure she could physically feel the blood draining from her face. Why, that…that…. "That's complete fiction, buddy," she finally said gruffly, "And it's bad—"

"—Bad form to gossip, laddy," a familiar voice came from the doorway.  _Ugh, just who I_ don't _need right now_ , Emma thought, turning around.

"Need help keeping order in the classroom, Miss?" Killian asked, leaning against the doorjamb, a half-smirk on his face and eyes twinkling.

Her eyes narrowed. "Doing just fine by my own devices."

"Well then." He gave a bow, straightening up with a ridiculous hand flourish. "As you were, Swan…pupils," he finished, giving her a blatant wink before he waltzed off down the hall.

" _Ooooohhh_ …" came a low rumble behind her. Emma whirled back around, hoping her complexion hadn't gone from blanched parsnip to fiery tomato.

"Anyone who doesn't have  _Hamlet_  out in two seconds is getting a five-page critique assigned over the weekend!"

She'd never been obeyed so quickly.

* * *

The end of the day couldn't come soon enough; as soon as the last bell rang, Emma hovered impatiently by the door until the last student had shuffled out, locked it, then made posthaste for the band room. She was going to put all this nonsense to rest before it got even more out of hand.

Killian was on one of the ancient metal stools the tuba players had the misfortune of teetering on, looking through what looked like a box of sticks, not noticing her approach on the carpeted floor. Even when he thought he was alone, did he really have to look so damn tempting, with his plaid shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearm muscles flexing as he rifled through the box. And if he really insisted on wearing such tight jeans, did he have to sit with his legs splayed from here to there?

" _Ahem_!"

Killian glanced up, looking unsurprised. "Swan? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Emma rolled her eyes, stalking closer to him. "First things first, you can stop talking like  _that_  whenever you see me."

A furrow showed up between his thick brows, and he leaned back on his stool. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, love. Greeting you? Does everyone who shows the barest ounce of cordiality towards you get their head bitten off, as well?"

"You know damn well the way you speak to me makes us sound like…well, like we're closer than we are." She planted her hands on her hips. "Other teachers have been talking. Now my students are whispering!" She took another step, palms held up appeasingly. "Just…just knock it off, okay?" She jumped, startled, when Killian threw back his head and let out a loud guffaw. "What—what the  _hell_  is so goddamn funny?"

"Y—you, darling," Killian managed to gasp out. "Acting the like the sole injured party. If I may be so bold—" He stood up suddenly, started walking her backwards towards the instrument lockers. "May I remind you…you started this whole public spectacle almost from the minute I set foot on this campus, with your utterly feeble attempts at my slang, my accent." He folded his arms, cocked a brow at her. "Well, Swan? Do you deny it?"

She felt her back hit metal. "I—I don't—"

"Of course, I'm not one to let a good barb go unreturned. Rather been enjoying myself, and I think you have too, if you'd just put your bloody pride aside for a minute."

She finally looked up, into his open expression. There wasn't any teasing or smugness there for once. He was right; she was being a total tight-ass. "You're right," she gritted out. "I'm sorry, it really wasn't—"

Killian took ahold of her fingertips lightly. "There, did that kill you?"

"Apologizing? Honestly…yeah, a little bit," she grinned.

He let out a short laugh. "Don't be sorry…but  _do_  come to Homecoming tomorrow. You haven't seen my prowess at managing these hoodlums yet. I promise, it'll literally be music to your ears now, not the cacophony of yore."

"I accept, Jones. But if it's a disaster, I'm coming at you Monday with both guns blazing."

"Verbally, I hope?"

"What the hell else would I mean?"

"Doesn't everyone in this wild frontier own at least two firearms?" he asked, jumping out of the way before her slap landed on his shoulder.


	5. Out of the Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this came from a general prompt list, and written while I was in a rut with my WIP.

"I'm sorry, you said she wants me to look at  _what_?"

The receptionist looked down to where she was shuffling her feet nervously, before saying again: "A fish, Doctor. A  _goldfish_." Her tone dripped disdain. "Can you please deal with her; she's getting huffy, and insisting that she has to see—"

Killian ran a hand down his scruffy face. Less than half an hour til closing, and some most likely hysterical, infirm elderly woman thought he could work miracles on an animal that had a blink-of-the-eye lifespan. Still…he'd never been one to turn away any pet owner, no matter the circumstance. "Alright. Alright, send them back." The receptionist gave him a brief nod and shoved the clipboard with the owner's info on it into his hands.

He double-checked the examining table, making sure there weren't any cat hairs still stuck to it from his last appointment, turning around when he heard someone clear their throat obnoxiously loud.

His first thought, as his eyes settled on the large glass bowl cupped between a pair of hands, was that his receptionist really hadn't been pulling his leg—not that the dour-faced wench so much as cracked a smile most days.

His second thought was, as his gaze trailed up smooth, pale fingers and a cream-colored sweater (that ran over magnificent curves, if he was being honest), up to a face marked with sharp green eyes and a tumble of blonde curls, was that his client was definitely  _not_  elderly.

He didn't realize he'd been staring until her brows scrunched to the middle of her forehead. "See something interesting, Dr. Doolittle?"

"I—er—" he flipped the front cover open so fast, the clipboard nearly fumbled to the floor. "Miss Swan. It's—you've brought in your…goldfish?" Killian leaned down, peered into the bowl again to confirm that it was, in fact, just a goldfish. It was, though definitely a Godzilla of its kind. It looked as though it had possibly eaten its brethren in whatever feeder fish tank it came from, and absorbed their body mass, only to keep growing from there—though now was certainly not a time to ask, especially going by that quiver in her lip she was desperately trying to control.

* * *

Emma delicately settled Flounder's bowl onto the steel table with a soft clink. "Great, you can read," she snapped flippantly, almost immediately flinching at her own tone, and growled, "sorry" in the vet's direction. Her fingertips started drumming nervously in the space beside the fishbowl. "He's, well…Flounder won't eat. He hasn't for two days, and he loves to eat"—here she caught a muffled snort from him—"and—and he floats up on his side up to the top, but then he starts swimming again like normal, over and over, and…well, there it is." Emma finally looked up past the pocket stitching on his lab coat her eyes had been boring a hole in— _K. Jones, DVM_ —and kept looking. She hadn't really given him much of a glance when she first walked in, but the man was gorgeous. And not just for the obvious physical reasons, though he wasn't short on those. But in the depths of those impossibly bright blue eyes, she could see something that wasn't there in the four other vets she went to today: kindness and sympathy. She'd expected another blustery type who stomped around like she was wasting their time, an annoyed edge to their voice. Emma just hoped it wasn't a ruse that would be exposed once he opened his mouth further.

"Miss Swan," he was saying, looking down at the patient, a hand on either side of the bowl. "I'm not exactly a fish specialist, more the four-legged friends type. Isn't there a fish and reptile vet down on—"

"There is," Emma said carefully, eyes dropping back to his pocket. "I took him there already."

"And?" Emma jumped, startled. When had he moved right in front of her?

"H-he said that…Flounder had 'run his course', and I should accept it and f-flush him down the toilet once it happened, and go get five more goldfish at Wal-Mart." Dammit, she could feel her lip start to shake. She absolutely would  _not_  cry, especially in front of a hot veterinarian with soft eyes and a lilting accent, so she just kept rambling. "And then I went to another vet, and they—okay, I'm going to just let you know, Dr. Jones—I've been to four other vets today, and they've all given me a variation on that first vet's answer: 'it's just a goldfish, what's the problem?' B-but he's not just any fish, he's five years old, and the only pet I've ever had since I won him at the carnival in Tallahassee, and moved where I've moved, and…and you're my last  _hope_." The last word ended on a whimper, a jerky hiccup escaped her throat, and she scrunched her fists into her eyes, knowing it was too late now—she was going to lose it. When the first sob bubbled up, she felt herself guided backwards; when her calves hit a pair of chair legs, she sat down clumsily.

* * *

 _Well…this was a new one_. Of course, Killian had had to put down many old or sick dogs, cats, even rabbits during his practice's tenure, but that was to be expected. Having some beautiful woman come barging in, thinking he could save her  _fish_ —no, never. He felt wholly out of his element. But it obviously meant a great deal to her, and for others in his field to tell her otherwise was just cruel.

He'd sat down in the folded chair next to the one he'd settled her in, though it was proving unnecessary. Her grip on his coat collar was so tight, she was practically sitting in his lap, her face buried in his neck as her tears smeared over it. His hand settled around her shoulders as best he could in the awkward position, while the other cupped her head. "Miss Swan…Emma…I'm sorry, lass. I'm  _so_  sorry." It was all he  _could_  say.

Once her cries had dimmed to sniffles, she lift her head, swiping at her red-rimmed eyes. "Oh my god, sorry!" she burst out when she noticed their positions, pushing off him like she'd been burned, and setting her elbows on her knees. Her head dropped into her hands.

"Well…that wasn't fucking embarrassing  _at all_ ," she quipped, roughly swiping the back of her hand across her face.

He tried not to focus on the loss of her warmth. "What've you got to be embarrassed about, lass? That you love something, care greatly for another creature? Never be embarassed of that." He turned her to face him. "You should never have been told what you were at those other clinics. And on behalf of my profession, I apologize for those wankers."

"Not needed on your part…but I'll accept. Dr. Jones—"

"Killian."

"Hmm?"

"Well, I think once one has left a fair amount of snot and spittle on another's lab coat, they ought to be on a first name basis."  _That_  finally earned him a bemused eyeroll, and he was grateful for pushing away even a tad of the gloom surrounding her.

"Fair enough. So!" She hauled herself to her feet, slapping her palms to her thighs with an exaggerated perkiness. "Sock it to me—is it good news or bad?"

"I'd say a bit of both. Prefer one or the other first?"

She bit her lip. "Bad."

Killian reached out to grip one of her limp hands in his. He could tell she wasn't a type to stand for the truth being softened, but she could still do with the support. Plus…it had been nice holding her. "Emma, I'm no expert with fish—as I've said—but he's, well, quite old for what he is. My professional opinion is…he's on his last legs—er,  _fins_ …as it were. Sure you don't have an overprotective mother sneaking into your house, replacing your fish every few months?"

A flicker of a smile ghosted over her lips. "Pretty sure, since I don't have a mother."

 _Bollocks. Excellent work there, Jones_. "I apologize, love, I—"

"What's the good news?"

"Er, well I wouldn't say it's good  _per se_ ," he admitted, scratching at his ear in that nervous tic he'd never managed to shake. "But I noticed on the sheet you filled out you live in an apartment, and from what you've said, I take it you're averse to going the toilet graveyard route when…when the time comes, and—"

"Spit it out, Killian."

"Well, perhaps you'd…liketoburyFlounderinmybackyard?" he finished in a nervous rush.

"Really? I—I don't know. That's kind of going above and beyond…."

He crossed to a drawer, and took out a wallet-sized card with the "Rainbow Bridge" printed on one side in small type, flipping it over and starting to write. He kept a small stack, handing them out when needed. And he was sure when the time came, the Swan girl would be glad to have both sides of the card.

"My cell, love," he said finally, holding it out to her when he was done. "Should you like to take me up on my offer."

Emma looked down at it, then up at him with a small grin. "I thought it was, like, against the rules or something to meet personally with a patient."

"You're my  _client_ ," he stated, wagging a finger. "I'm sure if I tried to meet up personally with my actual patients—you know, the tail-wagging, fur-covered lot—I'd be arrested and straitjacketed with haste." He closed her fingers over the card, trying his best to ignore the little spark travelling up his arm from the skin-to-skin contact. "At least consider it?"

she allowed her hand to linger in his a moment longer than required before nodding. "I will." She gathered the bowl under one arm, and tapped the corner of his card against his shoulder as she headed for the door. "You're a good egg, Jones."

Later, Killian can't recall how long he stared after her with a stupid grin etched on his face— not even his receptionist glaring daggers at him for staying after hours registered.

* * *

She called two days later, showing up with dry eyes and a flocked jewelry box.

"All I had," Emma said with a wobbly smile, allowing Killian to guide her out to the yard with a hand on her back, his husky, Balto, on their heels.

He tapped the trowel over the freshly churned earth (it had only taken five scoops for a large enough space; for all the recently departed's girth, it was still a goldfish) and let—all right,  _offered_ —his arm for Emma to link hers through, turning to head in only after she took the lead.

She wavered only slightly at his offer to stay for dinner, Balto's well-timed hand nudge sealing the deal. And over pizza and rum (he knew when someone needed the hard stuff), she told him more about bounding around the country, and asked when he'd moved there, and laughed at his more outrageous animal stories from his veterinary school days—"Forget Dr. Doolittle, I should call you James Herriot!"—and when her head drooped onto his shoulder after a  _little_  too much rum…well, they might have met under less than ideal circumstances, but he can't complain about where things have ended up.

* * *

Killian thought it might be best to try the 'play it cool' route—after all, he'd only seen her twice, and only once by invitation. He lasts one day of trying to contain himself, and ordered a dozen roses to send her on his way to work. Well…eleven roses, minus one to take back and lay on the newly minted grave in his backyard. Killian Jones never thought he'd have a bloody half-dead goldfish to thank for bringing a stunning woman into his life, but he knows to pay credit where credit's due.

And he can most assuredly feel something special brewing with Emma. And when she's back at his place by the weekend and spots the blackened rose head on the small mound from the kitchen window—well, he just pretends not to know what prompted a  _most_  thorough kiss out of the blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope it wasn't too weepy! Just DO NOT read that Rainbow Bridge poem if you know what's good for you.


	6. Silk Stalkings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired to write this little fic from the various clips between Colin & Jen at SDCC joking about Hook wanting to try out the Dark Swan wardrobe. Canonverse-set at a point after Emma's darkness is vanquished. Rated M.

She really should just sneak back to the front door, and re-enter with a bigger commotion.

 _Should_.

At least, that had been her intention—wasn't that a natural reaction stumbling in on your boyfriend trussed up in  _your_  lingerie, checking himself out in your bedroom's full-length mirror? It wasn't like Emma had ever gotten to the point of having a live-in boyfriend, much less catching one of them laced up into a black satin corset—and looking only marginally less amazing than she did in it.

They'd only been sharing the same living quarters for three months, almost immediately after Killian had pulled her back from the darkness for good. After everything that they had undergone together, she couldn't imagine going back to her parents' loft, sharing their cramped quarters. She wanted to see  _his_  face at the beginning and end of each day, fall asleep to the steady rise and fall of his breathing, chest hair tickling her nose. And naturally, the man in question hadn't needed much convincing.

Though she wouldn't deny that the Dark One wardrobe that had been foisted upon her with the role did fantastic things for her figure, she'd thought it best to remove all reminders of her stint in dark magic. And she would've guessed Killian felt the same. Nevertheless, all that gorgeous leather…and satin…and silk…and lace…. Emma just hadn't been able to bring herself to toss those outfits into the garbage, no matter what they were associated with. Instead, she'd tucked them into a bottom bin in the closet, behind a whole rack of winter coats. But of  _course_ , Killian had sniffed them out.  _Pirate, love_.

Besides the corset, he'd donned a pair of sheer black stockings, which on him only came up to just over his knees. A black robe that matched the corset, which was short even on her, hung just to the curve of his ass. Emma spotted the telltale little black bows of her garter belt's fasteners hanging below the robe's hem, swaying around his muscled thighs. And if the robe length and unimpeded garter straps were anything to go by, he probably had none of his own underwear beneath…. She pressed her knuckles firmly to her lips, mouth suddenly dry. Should she be finding this whole scenario so freakin' _hot_? Maybe a discussion about all this really was the best choice, once she'd allowed herself to cool down—

With one shaky step back, the toe of her flat brown boot knocked the corner of the door, and an audible creak broke the silence _. Too late to make a mad dash for it now_.

Killian looked casually over his shoulder at her. "Was wondering when you were going to announce your presence, darling."

"How—how did you—"

He tapped the curve of his hook against the side of his head. "Decades and decades' of practice at honing my senses."

Emma was sure her face was tomato red; flustered, she glanced down, rubbing at her heated cheeks. "Well, why didn't you say something?"

"When you didn't burst in demanding what I was on about, or run screaming from the house—come to think of it, why didn't you? Isn't this"—he finally turned and gestured down at himself—"considered odd in your world? I know it would be even back in the Enchanted Forest."

But she wanted some of her own questions answered first. "Can I ask what—what made you want to…?"

Killian glanced sheepishly down at his stocking-clad feet, reached up to scratch behind his ear. "Well…love, for all the desperation and worry I felt when you were in the clutches of that—that—"

"Unadulterated, incomprehensible evil in its basest form?"

"That's the one. Believe me, I tried to keep a clear head the whole way throughout the mission to get you back to, well,  _you_ , but…there was something about the way you—the way you carried yourself. Your stride, your posture, and yes, your attire: you appeared— _were_ —dangerous. But there was also something about that sight that made it, er…deeply arousing." He tried to smile, then began to fiddle with the ends of the sash. "It was foolish, but I suppose I wanted a taste of what that could be like…what you were feeling. Er, perhaps."

Yes, Emma had certainly never encountered a dilemma like this before with any past partners—the few that were around long enough to be called one—but this was different.  _He_  was different. And besides his motives being kinda sweet, he did cut just as intriguing a figure in her intimates, to her, as he once had in that sweeping, leather pirate coat. And if he thought  _he'd_  been aroused… Emma's brain blanked for a moment, gaze fixated on the loosely tied sash at his waist.  _Just a single, sharp tug_ —

"Love?" Killian had one brow raised in question, as though he was starting to get the gist of what was going through her mind. Yet when he raised a hand to scratch nervously behind his ear, she found enough of her voice again to reassure him.

"I—I suppose it might be considered weird to some people. But," she started towards him in stealthy strides, stalking her prey now, "I'm not some people."

And then—she couldn't help it—the tip of her tongue darted out to lick along the seam of her lips.

His sky blue eyes darkened to an ocean hue as they followed the movement. " _Emma Swan_ ," he said incredulously, "are you saying you  _like_  the image of me done up in your undergarments?"

She was finally standing toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose with him, and Emma forced herself to keep eye contact, wanting to remember his reactions. "Not just any undergarments," she murmured, her hands trailing to the hard planes of his chest. "My  _Dark One_  undergarments." She curled her fingers into his chest hair until he let out a low growl. "All of those  _tight_ , shiny fabrics…all those straps and snaps and zippers, just begging to be undone…" She let one hand continue on the path she'd started, trailing down the middle of the robe, parting it as she went, til her hand landed on the knotted sash.

Killian dropped his head back, Adam's apple bobbing. When he finally spoke, it was through gritted teeth. "I never imagined I…you…you are a bloody glorious woman, Swan, and I don't deserve—"

With that, Emma whipped off the sash with a flourish, almost jumping up and down when her earlier speculation proved correct—he'd indeed gone commando. And she didn't want him to start babbling; the fact of the matter was, he'd gotten her all hot and bothered, and she was going to see that to a pleasurable end. She pressed her fingertips into his shoulders, walking him backwards until the backs of his knees hit their bed, and he tumbled onto it with a soft grunt.

He rose up on his elbows, and held out his good hand towards her. "C'mere, love. I want—"

Emma stood between his legs, one knee on the mattress, and folded her arms. "Uh-uh, Captain. Don't you want a demonstration of my appreciation for the sexy show you put on for me?"

"Well  _yes_ , but—"

"Alright, then!" Emma dropped her knees to the floor, and spread the robe completely to the sides. His cock sprung up as soon as the last bit of material was out of the way, and she gleefully grasped it, guiding the head to her lips.

At the first touch of her tongue against the underside, Killian collapsed onto his back again with a loud groan, palm pressed to his forehead. "Gods, Swan," he groaned at a particularly enthusiastic swirl around the tip. "If I knew this would be what awaited me once—"

Emma lifted off him for a split second. "Shut up, Killian. Just lie back, and enjoy it."

"I—bloody  _fuck_ ," he bit out once she lowered her mouth to him again, hook digging into the wooden bedframe. "Good, always so—"

With Killian's praise ringing in her ears, Emma blindly ran a hand up his leg, pulling tightly on one of the garter straps. Her other hand held Killian's shaft firmly, pulling him deep, guiding him into a fast-approaching, mind-blowing orgasm.

He came with a gutteral shout, and Emma pulled back with a satisfied laugh, resting her cheek on his nylon-clad thigh.

Killian hauled himself up into a sitting position, panting. "That—that was…"

"I know." Emma hopped to her feet, and Killian swiftly grabbed her hand.

"Where're you trying to run off to? I believe it's my turn."

Emma twisted free, stopping at the doorway to flash him a coy smirk. "I just thought if you were still in the mood for dress-up…I kept my leather stiletto boots in the broom closet."

Taking his slackjawed expression as an affirmative, she made to leave the room again, until:

"While you're at it, darling? A request from your humble lover."

Emma quirked a brow. "A request?"

"Aye. I found your fishnets stashed in the linen drawer."


	7. The Whole Kit'n Caboodle, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This idea came from a general AU prompt list on Tumblr, as well as a healthy dash of RL inspiration. Prompt: • "Your cat got my cat pregnant and now I have all these kittens please take them" AU. Plus, CS + cats-what could be better?

Emma could feel the beginning of an eye twitch. A _hole_ , a hole kicked _right_ through her screen door! God, this neighborhood was going down the tubes—all the parents letting their rowdy kids run around with too much time on their hands once school was out. Silly her for wanting some of that rare summer breeze to filter through the house while she was at work.

She stooped and ran her fingertip along the frayed edges, tsking. Maybe a security camera would have to be the next step, she thought, finally straightening and jerking the door open angrily. After hanging her keys on the hook in the foyer and kicking off her shoes, she stopped, glancing around curiously. Usually her cat, Koko, would announce her presence once she heard Emma arrive home. But no cat was walking down the hallway today; in fact, everything sounded eerily quiet.

“Koko?” Emma took a couple more cautious steps down the hall, towards the living room. Still no cat, but a soft, shuffling kind of sound was filtering from the couch area. _Hmm…_ the door had still been locked, plus wouldn’t a robber try to be less inconspic—

“What the _hell_?” A massive, orange-striped, definitely-not-Koko cat was sprawled in the center of the living room rug, squirming around restlessly. That had to be the door destroyer—and from the look of things was probably rubbing _fleas_ into her carpet.

“Hey, you! Get out!” Emma clapped her hands loudly, hoping to scare it back outside. “ _Shoo_!”

Pointedly ignored, she went for foot stomping next, edging slowly closer and snatching a throw pillow off the couch. “Beat it!” she snapped, lobbing the cushion at it, clipping the cat on the ear. It turned around to send a lazy hiss, and Emma blinked as a tawny form came into view. That giant behemoth was on _top_ of her delicate little seal point Siamese! Okay, no more Ms. Nice Guy.

“ _BOOOO_!” Emma bellowed, running at the pair, flapping her arms. Seeing a deranged-looking human hurtling towards it, the intruder finally lumbered to its feet, and seeing Emma still behind it, shot out the way it had come in. Emma ran after the cat, yanking open the screen door, hoping to see it making for wherever its owner lived. Someone was going to answer for her broken door and—and _molestation_ of poor Koko.

For an animal of its size, it could certainly move fast when it wanted to. By the time Emma made it to the last step, it had already cleared the sidewalk and launched itself across the street. Emma watched with narrowed eyes as it ran down towards the end of the block, and disappeared into a bush. She groaned when she noticed it was a shrub nestled against the side of the very last house on the street. Which happened to be occupied by one Killian Jones.

* * *

Of all people that damned cat had to belong to, of course it just had to reside with the neighborhood thorn-in-Emma Swan’s side. Excuse her, but _someone_ had to take their responsibilities as an HOA board member seriously, and that included making sure everyone on the block kept a neat exterior. She’d first gone to visit Jones to tell him that the weeds in his yard growing almost as tall as cornstalks weren’t acceptable as a front lawn. And what had he done? Shot her a cocky smirk, dashed back inside, and re-emerged from the garage with his mower. _Shirtless_. She’d just huffed, marched back home, and glared out the window as the dried-out weeds had been whittled down within HOA compliance. Still an eyesore, but nothing she could complain about now. He’d even had the gall to wink in her house’s direction before disappearing inside, sweat rolling down his well-defined back muscles.

And so it went—every few months, it was something else. An ugly ‘70s Winnebago parked in front for over a week, a makeshift chicken coop—complete with a dawn-crowing rooster—suddenly springing up overnight. All the old biddies on the committee just tripped all over themselves for him, so of course it fell on Emma to be the one to go over and give Jones a piece of her—well, _the HOA’s_ —mind.

This time she relished it, because now she wasn’t some fun-hating schoolmarm putting the kibosh on some harmless hijinks. _Now_ it was personal. She started racking up the offenses in her mind as she rang the doorbell. _Property damage, animal harassment, and overall pain in my ass_.

He swung the door open on the second ring, wearing ripped jeans and a Home Depot tool belt with a few different wrenches hanging off it. Shirtless, _naturally_ , perspiration matting his generous amount of chest hair. God, why was he always so _sweaty_? What did he get up to that—no, no, bad train of thought to go down. Well then, why was he dressed—or underdressed—like he was about to star in a cheesy porno? Oh, if _that’s_ what he was running out of his house now—

“Swan?”

Emma started, looking up. “Er, come again?” She wanted to kick herself a millisecond later; fantastic word choice there.

His brow went up, mouth curling like he could read her thoughts. “I asked if you needed servicing, love.”

She rolled her eyes, crossed her arms. “More like my door does. You owe me a new screen.”

He leaned against the doorjamb, completely unconcerned. “Do I, now? How d’you figure?”

She pointed accusingly at him. “Do you, or do you not, have an orange tabby that tends to wander the—“

As if he knew he was the subject of the conversation, the cat in question emerged from beneath the front stairs, brushed past Emma, and wound himself several times around Killian’s legs.

“That’s the one!” Emma directed her indignant finger towards the cat now. “That fat lard smashed right through my screen like the Kool-Aid man!”

Killian leaned down and hauled the cat up like a sack of potatoes, its belly spilling over his arms. Emma forced her gaze away from his flexing forearms back to his face, hoping she still looked upset.

“Now, Swan, Rusty’s quite sensitive about his weight. Not a very sporting jab there. And besides, how can you be sure it was him that ruined your screen?”

“I saw him! And as his owner, you’re obligated to fix it, or pay for it be fixed!”

“Technically, I’m only the old moggy’s caretaker. Seems he was left behind in some move or other, and it wouldn’t be very good form of me to let him waste away by his lonesome. Besides, we rather get on.”

Emma raised her eyebrow. “Maybe he could do with _some_ wasting away. I mean, just look—“

Rusty raised his head and gave her the same hiss he had when his wooing efforts had been interrupted. Killian bent his head down to the cat, nodded, then straightened again.

“I agree, Rusty m’boy. Swan, I’ll fix your door. Happened to be fixing my bathroom sink already. But I’m afraid Rusty, and by extension, me, have one stipulation. An apology for the fat remarks.”

“You want me to apologize…to a cat.” Emma ran a hand through her hair. This was so ridiculous; maybe she should just fix it herself. But that teasing glint in Jones’ bright blue eye absolutely would not let her back down from the request, stupid as it was.

He smirked. “That’s how this works, yes.”

She sighed, leaning over and meeting Rusty’s baleful stare. “I’m sorry that you have no manners and—“

“Only sincere apologies accepted, lass,” Killian chastised, stroking the cat’s back.

“ _Fine_. You, uh…you’re a healthy, husky specimen, and I…had no reason to say otherwise. Forgiven?” God, she hoped nobody was strolling past on the sidewalk; they’d think she was off her meds. She extended a finger, which Rusty sniffed disdainfully, and then ignored.

Killian placed him back on the porch. “Well, you’ve passed.”

“Oh, _thank you_ ,” she shot back. “So glad I have a cat’s seal of approval. When does this mean I can get my door fixed up?"  

He glanced down at himself, gesturing at his tool belt. “Well, Swan, looks like you’re in luck: I’ve got my home improvement uniform already on, and—“

“Oh, you are _not_ waltzing into my place like that! What would the neighbors say?”

“That you’ve finally given into a long-suppressed desire to have your way with me?” At her scowl, Killian just turned up his hands and continued. “I admit, I _was_ a bit disappointed for your real reason for trekking over this way.”

Emma felt her face flame, and discreetly pressed the back of her hand to one cheek, trying to feel if it was warm. She turned to leave. “Just put on a damn shirt, and come fix my door.”

* * *

About ten minutes later, Killian showed up, dropping his tools with a noisy clatter as he openly gave her living room the once-over. Emma flopped into her easy chair, telling herself she ought to watch to make sure he didn’t do a shoddy job. Yes, that was it.

“I just don’t understand it,” Killian mused as he got to work, “never heard of old Rusty getting up to something like this before.”

“I’ll tell you why,” Emma snapped. “That vicious stray was attacking _my_ cat!”

“Attacked? Nonsense,” Killian scoffed. “He hasn’t a violent bone in his body.” Koko sidled into the room, rubbing her head against his hip. “Unless—“, he glanced down. “Swan, is this a female? And has it been fixed?”

“I—why? S-she’s only eight months old…,” Emma sputtered defensively. “I didn’t think…I don’t see how that’s relevant—“

Killian got up, came over and pointed at her with the pliers. “Relevant, milady, as hell nor high water nor a flimsy screen door can keep two animals in _heat_ ”—his tongue ran along his lower lip; Emma bit down on her own—“from fulfilling what nature intended.” He winked at her, then squatted back down to the hole. Emma’s mouth dropped open, and she marched up, poking him in the back.

“Hey! So you’re saying that that feral _beast_ is—has—“

Killian stood, clasping callused fingertips over her bare shoulders, and she cursed the telling goosebumps that rose in their wake. “What I’m saying is that perhaps a congratulations is in order, Swan. You’re most likely going to be a grandmother.” He reached down and scratched Koko’s chin. “Rusty seems to’ve punched above his weight class with this one. Purebred?”

“This isn’t funny, Jones!”

Killian bent down one more time to inspect his handywork, and straightened back up. “On the contrary, darling—it’s really _very_ funny.” He turned to leave. “Now, don’t be a stranger. We’re to be in-laws, after all. Think nothing of dropping by for some morning tea or—”

Emma grabbed his sleeve. “You can’t go now! You—you have to fix this!”

“Bit late for the safe sex talk, isn’t it, Swan?” He shot her another flippant grin as he started down the stairs. “Like I said, pop around anytime. Otherwise, I’ll expect a birth announcement in about, oh, two months time.” 

“But, Jones—“

“Don’t fret, love—evidently even the HOA enforcer isn’t infallible. Have a splendid day!” He gave her a jaunty wave, then trotted back across the street.

“You’re impossible!” She hollered after him. Her annoyance levels now off the charts, she turned to kick the door closed—missing the frame and putting her foot right through the new patch of screen.

“Dammit!” she slammed the door behind her. Looked like she’d be seeing that infuriating man—and his stupid cat—again sooner than predicted.

* * *

**A/N: I've been in a writing rut lately, and was surprised that the muse even got this one done. Just a warning in case the 2nd part doesn't follow very speedily. FYI, that one will probably be mainly from Killian's POV.**


	8. Raisin' Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt fill request from a Tumblr fan, who asked for an “Emma/Merida friendship with CS and Merintosh”. And it spun out of control, into a college AU, with Emma as an international student at St. Andrews on a golf scholarship. I have no idea if the athletics program info is accurate, but eh…needed it that way for the story. (And yes, I snuck in a line from both ‘Hamilton’ and ‘Parks & Rec’). Title from the long-standing tradition of ‘Raisin Weekend’ at that school.

“Gods Almighty.” Merida backed away from the third-floor window, passing her hand over her eyes. “Of all the….”

Emma looked up from the textbook she’d been furiously highlighting in for the past hour. “Now what? More half-naked revelers?” she asked, though she was sure what—or _who_ , rather—the real problem was. The hooting and yelling had been going on for awhile now, but there was only one person Merida would bother bitching about if she caught wind of them.

“Not jest any ha’-naked types—tae verra bane of my existence.” Her hand fluttered towards the window. “I mean, I cannae even tell wha’—I mean, tae be so self-cennered tae think innocent uni lasses want tae see what ye’ve usually got tucked aways— “

Emma’s eyes rounded. “Oooh, I wanna see!” Ignoring Merida’s protests, she darted to the window to look down upon their fellow St. Andrews’ student (and notorious partier), Macintosh, just on the grass below with MacGuffin and Dingwall, his rugby buddies. Though the latter two were trussed up in animal onesies—a bunny and a bear— the most practical costumes for both the fall weather and drunken shenanigans, Macintosh hadn’t deigned to do the same. Emma didn’t know if there was a different term for it in Scotland, but back in the States, what he had on would have been known as a _banana hammock_. And other than a plaid scarf wound about his neck that matched the coloring on the thong, he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. Painted blue rings marked the rest of his body, but still left nothing to the imagination. Emma smirked, and hollered down to him.

“Yoohoo, young laird!” She signaled him, waving both arms overhead in a wide arc.

Merida ducked down and crawled right next to the sill, giving Emma a hard pinch on the leg. “Jest what d’ye think yer doing? Dinnae encourage him!”

“ _Ow_! I’m just being friendly—“

Macintosh looked up, a half-grin plastered on his face, obviously already on his way to being facedown by the end of the evening. “Aye, if it isna fair Emma. Are ye and yer flame-haired, demoness flatmate plannin’ on joinin’ the festivities perchance?”

“Nae another word!” Merida hissed from her position on the floor.

Emma glanced down at her side, eyes wide with faux-innocence, and nearly shrieked: “What?! What’d you say?!”

_I’ll kill ‘er. Jest as she’s a-driftin’ off, I’ll—_

“Who’s that with ye now, lassie? Could it be tae verra one who threatens to disembowel me at our ev’ry meeting? Ye ken, those who say such things really jest want tae take advantage of me. An’ that includes Mer—“      

“ _Oh_!” Merida couldn’t keep quiet anymore at that, and stood up quickly, shoving Emma out of the way, leaning out the window. “Dinnae let any such ideas cross yer mind. Why, I was jest tellin’ Emma how much ye disgust me!” But as she looked down from her perch, Merida felt her tongue turn dry as sandpaper. Disgust was the last emotion flitting through her mind jest then. The fool ran around shirtless every chance he got, ever since secondary school, but she’d never seen quite so much of him before. More muscle in his legs and arse than even his usual tight rugby shorts revealed. And the Pict-style paint accentuating his biceps and pecs wasna exactly unbecoming….

“Ah, so ye’ve discussed me! I’m touched, Highness.” He gave her a sloppy bow, nearly falling over as he tried to stand up straight again.

“An’ how many times have I said _not_ tae call me that?!”

“I’ll stop callin’ ye that when ye git off yer high horse…Highness!” He spread his arms wide, beaming up at her. “Wouldna end ye tae take the stick out o’ yer arse for one weekend, now would it? Live a wee bit?”

“Better tae have a stick up my arse, an’ have a mind towards my future, than tae be on tae verge o’ bein’ kicked off the rugby team for poor marks and be carousin’ with first-year students!” She crossed her arms triumphantly, giving him the stink eye.

MacGuffin and Dingwall looked down and shuffled their feet, embarrassed at being called out as second-years who really had no official part in this weekend. But Macintosh just stared right back, keeping perfect eye contact, mouth pressed into a hard line. Merida expected some other barb about being a snooty little snob, but he glared at her long enough for her to _almost_ start feeling contrite for the comment. Just as she was about to give and break the tension with some stupid joke, he jerked his head at Dingwall and MacGuffin, and strode away across the courtyard. Merida cleared her throat, stepped back, and drew the curtain.

“Damn,” Emma frowned at her. “I thought over-the-top rudeness was my modus operandi. You hurt his feelings.”

“Perhaps I might’ve, if he had any feelins’. Though I wouldna wager tha’ someone who tries tae get ye booted from yer school’s archery team—“

“You told me that was back in high— I mean, _secondary_ school! He obviously regrets it now. Grudge much?”

Merida sniffed, nose in the air. “Til I get a formal apology, he’ll get no quarter from me. An’ even then, no guarantee.”

“Well…at the least, don’t underestimate the value of a good hate _fook_.”

“Yer pathetic attempt at a Scots accent makes me want tae spew even more than yer repulsive suggestion,” Merida said, adding a shudder for good measure. She wasna going tae start imagining that moron baring what little—or large, from what she had deduced by the outline of that clingy thong—he kept covered, and herself following suite….

“I dunno, I could cut that sexual tension with a butterknife.” Emma shot her a grin that Merida didna like one bit. “C’mon, is tonight the night—going to finally drape the ol’ necktie over the doorknob? Though I guess you could use Macintosh’s scarf, and I’ll _ken_ what you mean.“

Merida folded her arms, returning the smug look right back. “How ‘bout I bring tha’ ham-handed oaf tae my bed when ye finally ask tha’ brooding barkeep tae see ye outside The Cellar? Kevin, is it?” she continued, knowing full well it wasna.

Emma suddenly lost her bravado, face going beet red. She looked down and started playing with a loose thread on her quilt. “It’s _Killian_. And he doesn’t like me.”

“I never heard such a load o’ shee-it in m’life. He gives ye free Aspall’s ev’rytime ye go, an’ I’ve nae seen him take his eyes from ye whenever yer around.”

Emma moved so her long hair curtained her face, hiding her expression. Merida could read the signs; she was starting to close off, but for some reason, Merida didna want to accept it this time. Emma’d gotten her musing over Macintosh—curse her—and maybe Emma could do with some airing out on why this evident, mutual attraction was going nowhere. There were certain subjects the two had come to an understanding over in their early days as flatmates—after a few tussles ending in headlocks and several pints of Dark Fruit Strongbow—that were now simply _known_ to be OFF LIMITS in terms of discussing. No talking about Emma’s foster care upbringing or Merida’s deceased father, with a somewhat loose embargo equally on the topic of their love lives. Meaning there’d always been teasing between them over the idea, but no serious conversations on either end.

“He probably only feels sorry for me, cause he jerks his hand away every time we’ve accidentally touched like I’ve burned him.”

Merida cocked a brow. “An’ why would he be feelin’ sorry for ye? Or nae like ye, for that matter? Yer blonde, yer thin, ye’ve got decent sized chebs—“

“Oh, shut up,” Emma said fidgeting some more. “I—it’s…it’s probably cause I told him.”

“Told him wha’?”

Emma swiped quickly at her eyes, but they were still shiny when she looked up. “ _Everything_. How I moved around my whole life, took the golf scholarship here just so I could go away someplace new. I had too much cider, and—oh god, I’m such an idiot! I told him everything, after just a few pints, and then—then we kissed. But all my issues must’ve scared him off. He’s still _nice_ —but it’s never gone beyond that since.”

Merida scowled. “So ye bared yer soul, kissed, an’ then he thinks he can reject ye?” She jumped to her feet, started pulling her wild mane into a ponytail. “I’m goin’ down tae The Cellar, an’ kickin’ his sorry arse. Where’s yer nine-iron?”

Emma just rolled her eyes, and fell back on her bed. “ _Don’t_. It’s not that big a town, and you’re already kinda running out of bars to be banned for life from. I don’t want to go drinking on my own _all_ the time for the rest of my higher education days.” She rolled onto her side towards Merida. “But I appreciate the offer.”

There was more to the story, Merida was sure. Lads didna look at lasses the way Killian did at Emma, and want to remain cool acquaintances. Maybe he needed a push—or a shove off a Highland cliff—in tae right direction. She glanced over at Emma, still looking forlorn. Neither of them were all that social, which was why they’d broken their Raisin Parents’ hearts when they said they wanted no part in St. Andrew’s most infamous tradition, but perhaps it was the perfect opportunity for Emma to confront that infuriating man. The streets were running wild with uni students blitzed out of their minds—if she said or did anything tonight with Killian she regretted later, well…she could always blame it on the rum.

Merida drummed her fingers on the sill. “Ye ken…maybe we should join ‘em down there.”

Emma raised a brow. “Is this just because Macintosh said you’re no fun? Look, I think he’s harmless, unlike you, but you don’t have to go out just—“

“Ye ought tae get yer mind off this eejit, and I, er…I’d like tae dump a nice, cold beer over Macintosh’s overinflated head when I find him.”  Merida wanted to kick herself; the words sounded hollow even to herself, plus she could practically feel Emma’s X-ray gaze boring into the back of her head. And sure enough—

“You’re lying.”

“Alright, look here,” Merida turned around, determined look firmly on her face. “Yer goin’ tae talk to the Brit tonight, an’ get tae the bottom o’ things. I ken—,” Merida felt like she was on thin ice, but it needed to be said, “—I ken that most folks in yer past left ye high ‘n dry, but fer once, ye can get a straight answer if he _is_ tryin’ tae give ye tae slip.” _Which he isna_ , she thought decisively, settling on: “Which isna likely.”

Emma stared at her silently for so long, Merida wasn’t sure if she was going to pretend the whole exchange hadn’t happened or was deciding the best way to take her down. Finally, a small smirk lifted one corner of her mouth.

“Fine. I’ll…well, _we’ll_ go. If—”

“There it tis,” Merida grumbled.

“If you seek out your own man problem, and deal with it.”

“I jest said I’m goin’ tae find Macintosh’s sorry arse, an’—“

“ _Nooo_ , not to antagonize him. You’re going to do the same thing you’re making me do—talk.”

“About what?” Merida huffed petulantly.

“Whatever you want. It just can’t start or end in a fight, physical _or_ verbal.”

“Yer puttin’ some tight constraints on this already implausible interaction, girly.”

“Fine,” Emma let out a very fake yawn, curling up around her textbook again. “I’ll just stay in, and—“

Merida gave a dramatic groan. “Tae things I do fer a bluidy American flatmate.” She whipped her phone out of her pocket, and started sending out messages. “I’ll let the academic mums ken we’re back in tae spirit o’ things.”

“But we told Mulan and Mary Margaret we weren’t interested—they won’t have any costumes for us like everyone else.”

“Tae thing about the anal-retentive type,” Merida said, as her fingers flew over her phone’s screen, “is tha’ they’re prepared fer any change o’ tae wind. There!” She looked up triumphantly. “All taken care of.”

“Mulan may be prepared for anything, but I don’t think Mary Margaret—“

“Oh, I didna ask her. Nae fer you, that is. I asked Ruby; she’s got quite an impressive collection o’ costumes.”

“I’ve seen what she wears just day-to-day, and that _isn’t_ reassuring.”

“Relax, Barbie lass—she’s got something verra tame fer ye. A bunny-rabbit.”

Emma grinned at the sound of that— _boony ra-beet_ —then sobered up. “A bunny?” Emma said cautiously. “You mean, like MacGuffin’s onesie? It’ll cover everything?”

“It’s a one-piece, aye,” Merida said, suddenly busying herself looking through her top bureau drawer.

“I’m not sure I like the careful wording there, roomie.”

Merida threw up her hands. “Jest…keep an open mind, aye?”

* * *

Half an hour later, Mary Margaret and Mulan, the girls’ fourth-year ‘academic moms’, and their mutual friend, Ruby, showed up at the Agnes Blackadder dorms. “Oh, I’m so glad you two got into the weekend spirit!” Mary Margaret, Emma’s fellow American and academic mom shrieked. “I remember my Raisin Weekend, and it was just…”

Off she went about her own memories, but Merida’s academic mom, Mulan, had a more cynical expression, and Merida knew she was going to give her, the anti-school spirit mascot if there ever was one, the third degree. Sure enough—

“And what inspired this change-of-heart?” Mulan asked, crossing her arms.

“I—I jest realized I cannae live wi’ myself if I don’t let Emma in on such a…immortal Scottish affair. An’—an’ if I jest so happen tae run intae Macintosh, an’ have a full cup o’ cheap liquor, I wouldna mind relievin’ it over his head.”

Mulan opened her mouth to object, no doubt, but Ruby pushed to the front, a shopping bag in her arms. “Hey, the kids wanna go—don’t make a federal case out of it. Federal…does that make sense in Scotland? Whatever, anyways,” she pushed the bag into Emma’s arms. “Just try it on, and come show everyone!”

Emma peaked inside, gasped, and scrunched the bag together. “It’s practically a bathing suit! I’ll freeze my ass off!”

“ _Emma_ ,” Merida reminded. “Wha’ did I say? Open. Mind.”

“ _Fiiine_ ,” the other girl grumbled, disappearing into the bathroom.

Mary Margaret looked disapprovingly between Merida and Ruby. “I’m not sure of that get-up, either.” She touched a hand to her own completely buttoned-up collar. “You know, just because all the other first-years are dressed like…like… _ladies of the night_ , doesn’t mean—“

The furious whispering suddenly came at Mary Margaret from both sides: Merida saying something about Emma having to “clear the air” with some guy, and Ruby saying how _cuuute_ she was going to look, and it’d be criminal not to let her out into the world as such for the one sanctioned weekend of debauchery for the first-years. Mary Margaret held both palms out in front of each of their faces.

“I can’t say I like the sound of this. Who is this boy? I haven’t heard of him before. And the academic fathers are the ones who’re supposed to approve the nighttime activities, and if David hasn’t heard of this boy either—“

“He’s a _man_. Like…twenty-five…or somewhere’s aboot.”

“That’s not exactly convincing me, Merida!”

“ _Shee-it_!” Merida exclaimed, earning a smack on the back of her skull from Mulan. “What’s wi’ the third degree, mumsie? Ye ken ye two arna _really_ her parents, right? An’ ye might want tae break that news tae David, too, the way he acts.”

Mary Margaret pressed her lips together primly. “We have a right to be concerned. Emma’s _kinda_ our responsibility for the weekend.”

Merida tried to sum it up, in a nutshell, for the fourth-year as best she could: how she wanted Emma to find out that not all men—or people, for that matter—were going to disappoint her, and how Merida simply ‘had a good feeling about this one’.

“I don’t think Emma should be wandering around by herself—“

“She’ll be wi’ me.”

“Still…David won’t like just the two of you out by yourselves.“

“Then I guess you’ll have to give him the slip,” Ruby said with a smirk. “I’m sure there’re all kinds of methods you can employ that he’ll be only _too_ happy—“

“I swear, Ruby, you—“

“Guys?” Emma’s uncertain voice came from behind them. “I, uh…can’t wear panties with this.” They all turned around, their faces simultaneously lighting up with smiles.

It was definitely a one-piece bunny suit…of the 1960s Playboy variety: black velvet, high-cut leg openings, lowcut neckline, and complete with separate cuffs, collar, and of course, bunny ears. Emma tugged self-consciously at one of the cuffs. “This reeks of trying-to-hard. I can’t see Kil—I mean, I can’t go out in this.”

“But you look _ah-mazing_!” Ruby swore, snaking an arm around Emma’s shoulders.

Merida was already slipping into the Robin Hood outfit Mulan had brought for her, heedless of the others. “Doona be a square, girly. Jest try it out…And,” she added with a look from Mary Margaret, “if ye still dinnae like it, we’ll…we’ll come back tae the dorms.”

Last ditch attempt—her academic mom would never agree to this. “Mary Margaret?”

The other girls seemed to be holding their breath, waiting on her verdict. Finally, Mary Margaret walked up to her, adjusted the ears. “As your official academic mother, I have to voice my disapproval with this _man_ plan. But,” she reached out to arrange a handful of curls over Emma’s shoulder, “as a friend, all I have to say is: you’re going to knock his socks off.”

Emma squirmed, unused to the casual, affectionate gesture. “Maybe…no, I _know_ this is a bad idea.”

The typically straightlaced older girl just gave Emma a wink. “What’ve you got to lose? At the least, you’re going to stop that poor _man’s_ heart.”

* * *

_Great. This is just fuckin’ great._

It had taken all of ten minutes for Emma and Merida to join the unruly crowd, get separated by said unruly crowd, and, for Emma, drop her phone into a mud puddle.

 _Fuckin’ great_ , she thought again, staring at the black screen. She turned in all directions, looking for a landmark that might lead her back to the dorms. As athletes, she and Merida had arrived before most of the rest of the school, and she thought she’d gotten a pretty good handle on what was where in the small town. Apparently, she’d just been following Merida’s lead, because on her own and at night, everything looked different.

 _The first non-citizen to be deemed the Scottish Ladies Amateur Golf Champion,_ Emma thought _, and look at me now_. She glanced down at her barely-there costume. _I can’t believe I let those jerks talk me into this. Macintosh is right, Merida_ is _a demoness_. _And even my own academic mom is a hench-demoness_. After her first two years in high school that had brought so much grief to her life—well, more than there already had been—Emma’d consciously made golf her life. She hadn’t been particularly enthused about it at first, but she _was_ good at it, and so she’d made it her ticket out of a future of being kicked out to fend for herself when she reached eighteen.

 _And now you’re nineteen, stumbling around the streets of St. Andrews dressed like a Vegas showgirl, hoping with everything you’ve got that this guy doesn’t turn out to be a lackwit like all the rest_. She rolled her eyes as she passed more student apartments, a used condom tossed on top of a trash lid. Emma sighed, started to run her fingers through her hair before they ran into the headband. _You’re the eejit here, Swan. Cut your losses, tell Merida nothing came of it_ —

“Swan?”

For a split-second, Emma thought her inner musings had grown so strong, they’d acquired their own voice. But then, why would they have a familiar, British, male accent?

Crap; her damned inner musings had taken her right to where she shouldn’t be—the front of The Cellar Bar, complete with the most devastatingly handsome, smoldering-eyed bartender this side of the Atlantic. Oh, yeah, _and_ completely disinterested in her. For a moment, once upon a time, she’d thought—no, he’d made himself perfectly clear. So why the hell had she given into Merida’s stupid suggestion?

He’d gotten closer as she stood frozen in the center of the deserted sidewalk, tilted his head, peering worriedly at her with those baby-blues that blazed bright even in the dim street lighting. “Cat got your tongue, love?” Dammit, she wasn’t plunking down a few pounds for a drink; couldn’t he turn off that appealing smolder for two seconds?

She opened her mouth for what would have been—no doubt—some suave, witty retort. Unfortunately, all that came out after, “I…I…” was a rapid succession of teeth chattering.

“Come here, darling, you’re chilled to the bone,” Killian said, shrugging off his thick, black twill  jacket, and draping it around her shoulders. “Whatever are you running around in…that for?” He did a quick double take, then met her eyes. “I thought I remembered you saying you weren’t taking part in the whole Raisin foolishness.”

Emma gulped. “Do—do you like it?.”

* * *

“Fookin’ great!” Merida yelled out, wrestling her way out of a crush of people she’d been swept up in several blocks back. She turned about, scanning the crowd wildly. “Emma?  _Emma_ !”

_Splendid_ , she thought. _Em-em an’ David are going tae keel me_ _fer losin’ their fake bairn_. Mulan probably would too, just in solidarity—and so it wouldn’t reflect badly on her.

“Ugh!” Merida glanced down to see chalky streaks of color marring her felt costume, and—she reached up and pulled crepe paper from a red curl—was that a _streamer_? And _shaving cream_?! Those eejits weren’t even s’posed to bring foam out til the following day’s activities.

“Ye gods,” she groaned, catching sight of herself in a shop window. She looked like she’d crawled from a dumpster outside a rave. And she could feel some cold liquid that had been sloshed down her legs—beer, most likely—starting to give her a chill. Her little feminized Hood costume definitely covered more skin than Emma’s getup—though the skirt still wasn’t very practical for a fall night.

Now what? Would Emma have gone directly to The Cellar, thinking they could meet up there? Well, she didna have a better idea. Hopefully the poor girl hadn’t gotten the same treatment, Merida could collect her, then go back to the dorms, clean off, and pretend this ill-fated excursion never happened. She was counting on Emma not to hold her to her ‘find Macintosh’ promise now. She could give her the sad-puppy eyes—

“Fook!” she yelled out. She’d been so intent on orchestrating their escape back to safety that she’d walked right into the Hamish McHamish memorial. Her elbow and toe throbbed where they’d met the stone.

“Ye…ye…damned, dotty cat!” she yowled. It didna matter; Logies Lane was clear of students at a time like—

“Oy now, what’d tae poor, dead moggy ever do tae ye?”

 _Shee-it. That voice…nae, it couldna be—she wouldna allow it_. Merida squeezed her eyes shut. “This isna happenin’, this isna happenin’—“

“Chantin’? Are ye intae yoga now, Merida?” A firm hand grasped her upper arm, and her eyes flew open. Curse it all—Macintosh, in tae flesh, though it seemed between their last encounter he’d acquired a grass hula skirt to hide what his thong could barely do.

She jerked her arm out of his hand. “Whaddya think yer doin’?!”

He held his hands up. “Jest seein’ if ye hurt yerself. Doona get pissy.” A corner of his mouth crooked downward; if it had been anyone else, it might’ve been cute.    

She felt a twinge of…something, but just tossed her head. _Emma said not tae argue_. “Well…as ye can see, I’m never better.” She gestured at his new piece with her chin. “Changed, aye? Modest, fer ye.”

He feigned sweeping aside the fronds directly in the front. “Nae exactly, jest a new layer. I could always strip down again, if ye prefer—“

“Doona even!” she cried, jumping back a bit.

He gave her a long look up and down. “Still plannin’ on raisin’ some hell like that?” He gestured towards the disaster she’d turned into. “Nae that tae crazed-primary-school teacher-out-on-tae-town look is off-puttin’, but—“

“Oh, piss off!” Merida gave Macintosh a double-handed shove that sent him staggering back a few paces. How in tae hell was his skin so warm in the chilly night? And the coarse hair beneath her fingertips for a split-second had been—

She shook her head. What was gettin’ intae her? Maybe hypothermia was setting in. That was the only reasonable explanation. Merida looked up just in time to see Macintosh glance down at where she’d touched him, before meeting her gaze again.

“Ye doona have tae nearly break a man’s breastbone tae get his attention, Merida.” He shot her a pompous leer. “We all jest want tae same thing—ample glimpses of feminine flesh on Raisin weekend.”

She rolled her eyes. “Why am I still talkin’ to ye?”, she said, started walking away. “I hafta find my flatmate, or we’re both in trouble.”

Merida heard Macintosh’s hurried steps behind her, before he pulled alongside. “Maybe…I mean…ye could use some assistance?”

She reached behind her, patted her quiver that she’d spruced up with a lone arrow. “I can take care o’ myself, thank ye verra much. Perfectly equipped tae handle louts like ye.”

With a muttered grunt, Macintosh swung around right in front of her, so suddenly that she couldn’t stop her next step, and their chests bumped into each other. She took a step back immediately. “What—“

But he cut her off, crossing his arms in front of his rugby-toned pecs. “For tae love o’ God, Merida, twas four _years_ ago now! Ye certainly know how tae nurse a grudge. I said I was sorry—“

“Nae, ye didna.”

“Eh? Didna what?”

She was still kind of smarting from the ‘grudge’ comment—that made two of those accusations against her in one day. And she didna view herself as an unforgiving person, ‘cept in this case, the man jest seemed tae get under her skin. Plus there was the matter of—

“Ye never apologized. I’d’ve remembered.”

He quirked a brow at her, then smiled. “Aye, I’m sure ye would’ve. Well, is it too late?”

* * *

Her cheeks felt unusually warm, despite just being one drink into the evening. Emma tilted her empty glass towards Killian, who directed them both behind the bar to partake of libations, despite the place being completely bereft of other patrons. There’d always been at least the bar countertop between them before; Emma wasn’t sure what to do with this newfound proximity. Even if they were huddled on the floor behind some bartop, did he really have to sit so close? He’d even found a clean bar rag for her to sit on. Who said chivalry was dead?

“So,” she said when he’d refilled her rum, her voice coming out high-pitched. _Get it together, Swan._ “Business not booming tonight?” _Smooth line, there_.

Killian shrugged, eyes still on her. “There’s more exciting establishments to be at tonight, I imagine. Though I did catch some young man trying to pour himself a pint earlier before running out the door.”

“And what’d you do?”

“Grabbed the back of his shirt, and it sloshed down his front.” His eyes shone in the dim light, a half-grin on his face.

Emma snorted at the image of it in her head. “Very upstanding of you. I’d’ve liked to see _that_.”

“It would have been far less boring around here if you’d been around earlier, too, darling.”

 _Alright, enough of this_. _Nip it in the bud_. “Killian…don’t call me that.”

“What? ‘Darling’? You never seemed to mind before.”

“I know, but…well,”—she took a generous swallow of rum. “I thought it meant something. That you,”—another long drink, “were thinking—“

“Whoa, slow down there, Swan,” Killian lowered her glass. “Just let me know what I’ve done wrong.”

“ _Nothing_. It was me—I thought…I thought you liked me, but then you obviously didn’t, and now you barely speak to me when Merida makes me come in—“ Emma stopped herself; her thoughts sounded so childish when they were put into words. But she was sick of having people in her life come and go, and wondering what she’d done to cause it.

Killian squeezed his eyes shut, let his head fall back with a thunk against the bar. “You’re killing me here, Swan.”

“What’d you mean?”

“I mean that summertime is generally the most godawful, boring time in this miniscule town, and then this past summer _you_ burst through The Cellar’s doors, and….”

“ _And_?”

“I couldn’t not stay away from you. You were—,” Killian kept his eyes closed, but gestured towards her. “—you _are_ the most gorgeous creature I’d ever seen.”

Emma turned to kneel, and punched him in the shoulder. “Quit pulling my leg.” But there was nothing in his tone that gave it away as a lie.

“No tall tale here, dar—Emma. And I do apologize for the hot-and-cold maneuver I pulled, but I’m…I’m just not good enough for you.”

Her eyes grew wide. “ _What_?! Did—do you _seriously_ think that? You’re—“

“I’m a man without a real place to call home, and a naval academy dropout. Now all I do is pour out liquor to—well, you know that part of the story. You told me about your past, but now you’re going places, Swan. The last thing you need is getting tangled up with someone like me.”

Emma put a hand on his chin, and turned his face towards her. “Killian, shut up. I mean it. I told you how I was bounced around, and all I had was this scholarship waiting for me. But _I_ was almost a high school dropout, and had a pregnancy scare when I was fifteen. I made a decision so I wouldn’t be in dire straits after high school. So…yeah. Don’t think I’m all that great. I got lucky, that’s it.” She paused for another sip of liquid courage before continuing. “And…and I don’t see how you being in my life could be anything but a benefit.” She could feel her face burn as he studied her without speaking. She’d said too much, no doubt. He probably _was_ thinking she was too much of a mess for—

Her mind was still in overdrive as Killian closed the small space between them, and molded his mouth to hers. Emma only paused for a second before twining one hand through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and drawing him even closer. She sighed into his mouth with bliss to finally be kissing him; it was just as she’d imagined it would be: masterful, hot, pleasantly prickly from his stubble. All it took was a nip to his bottom lip for Killian to drag her into his lap, both hands at her waist, and start lining kisses down her neck. God, had she ever been properly kissed before this?

They both froze at hearing a small group in the doorway, but apparently seeing no one at the bar, started walking up the street again.

Killian grinned up at her, running a hand from her hip to shoulder. “See what you’ve done, lass? I’m a terrible bartender.”

“Maybe….“

“Oy!”

“ _But_ you’re a very good kisser, and I’m selfishly thinking that’s more important.”

“How could I not kiss you, walking in here tonight in this little…scrap. It’s a scrap, Swan.”

“No argument there.”

“I was either going to kiss the everloving hell out of you tonight, or go back to my flat, berating myself for not.”

“Well, since there won’t be any berating now, we should probably just…continue?” She gave a firm bite to his earlobe, and any possible protest that might’ve come dissolved into a satisfied groan.

* * *

Had he truly always thought he’d asked her forgiveness?  _Men_ . Still, Merida wouldna let it be said she was ungracious. “I…I guess ye can apologize now. Even though it’s  _late_ .”

He swept to one knee, a fist held to his heart. “I swear, I’m exceedingly sorry fer bein’ a right prick at tae age o’ sixteen—“

“This doesna count if yer makin’ excuses.”

“Er, right. Well, I am. Sorry, that is. And in recompense, I offer my services in getting’ that muck outta yer hair.”

“Uh…but…Ye dinnae have tae—“

He tugged her wrist until she lowered herself to the grass as well. “Aye, I dinnae have tae. But I will.” Both sets of his fingertips rested on her shoulders. “Lean back.”

“Ah, ye mean…against ye?” She half turned to look at him.

“Aye, riiiight here.” He smirked, and thumped his bare chest like a caveman. _No great stretch of the imagination there_ , Merida thought.

“I’m, eh, I…I’m fine as is,” she replied, sitting ramrod straight. She heard an amused chuckle from him, and then he scooted himself forward til his chest met her back; Merida gave a surprised little squeak. The gall of the drunken eejit!

“As ye are, then,” he said, starting to sift through her curls. “If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, the mountain—“

“I _ken_ the sayin’,” she said crossly. “An’ doona push the advantage o’ yer position.”

“Wouldna dream of it.”  

He worked in silence for awhile, and Merida even felt her eyelids droop to half-mast. It was more like Macintosh was giving her a head massage than cleaning her like a monkey at the zoo. At that thought, she sat up straight again— _when had she leaned back_?—and cleared her throat. Things were getting entirely too comfortable. Oh gods, and she still had to find Emma! A fine friend she was.

“Problem?” Macintosh peered around to meet her gaze. “Did I pull somethin’?”

His proximity was entirely too close, but she was bracketed between his knees. “N-no. only that I lost Emma, and she’s probably roamin’ the streets, hating me and—“

“Almost done; I’ll help ye find her. A shame to leave such a friendly scene, though, wouldna ye say?”

“I dinnae ken what ye mean by that,” Merida insisted, trying to recline to one side to make some space between them.

“Hmm…mmhmm…verra interestin’,” he murmured, gazing down, and Merida didna like the stare that was firmly on her lips. Nae one bit.

“Wh—what’s so interesting?” she asked, her own eyes falling to his full lips. They looked so pleasant, ticked up in a soft smile, probably soft and welcoming tae kiss—Merida gave herself a mental shake. Too bad those lips belonged to such a scoundrel.

“Our position,” he said, warm puffs of breath tickling her face. “Why, I wouldna even have tae move one centimeter for our mouths tae meet. All I’d hafta tae do is—“ he started to pucker his slightly.

Merida swallowed around what felt like a billiard ball-sized lump in her throat, barely moving her own to retort: “Ye wouldna dare.”

Macintosh grinned, then jumped up so suddenly, Merida fell over, her back meeting the grass. “Hey!“

“Truth, I wouldna dare. Nae yet.”

She glared up at him. “What’s yer meanin’?”

“I mean that I’d like tae wait fer ye tae seek me out after this. Jest so ye cannae blame tae booze, thankin’ me for helpin’ ye, tae full moon, or whatever else yer wily mind would think up as an excuse for ye _not_ tae be crazy about me.”

She grumbled as she hauled herself to her feet, dusting herself off. “Keep dreamin,’ ye utter clod.”

* * *

Well, that hadna gone as planned.

Merida and Macintosh had arrived at The Cellar, the lights on but empty—at first glance. Until she saw a pair of black-and-white ears bobbing about from behind the bar, the sound of soft grunts barely audible.

Merida smirked. _You’ll never live this down, girly_. She held a hand out behind her to signal Macintosh not to follow her in, and started backing quietly out.

“What’s wrong? She isna here, is she?”

Merida put a finger to her lips, and her other palm against his back, and pushed to get him going. “Aye, she’s there, all right. But I doona think she’d appreciate my interference at such a moment.”

“Ye mean—“

“I’d wager she’s resolved her differences wi’ her bartender. They’re either kissin’ or fookin’, and it isna my business to confirm which.”

Macintosh craned his head back around. “Maybe I should check, jest tae make sure—“

Merida twined an arm through his—merely to keep him moving, she told herself—and started marching them away. “ _Walk_ , ye pervert.”

At the end of the road, she disentangled herself, and turned to face her new…whatever they were now. She held out her hand. “Truce?”

He took it almost shyly, and refused to let Merida make a brisk go of it, gripping her palm until he was satisfied with the length of the shake.

“Are we done ‘er?” Merida said, trying and failing this time to inject any irritation into her tone.

“Ye ken, Merida,” Macintosh said slowly, “tae night’s young. An’ I meant what I said.”

“Aboot?”

“Yer goin’ tae hafta come after me.”

He looked uncertain for a second when she didn’t give a response, looking as though he might have overestimated this new…whatever it was. Until Merida flashed a smile, and started walking backwards away from him. “I’ll give ye a sportin’ start.”

“Er, for…?”

She winked, pretended to notch the single arrow into her bow. “Why, I’m goin’ huntin’—and it’s _you_ season.”


	9. What If

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooops, I'd posted this awhile ago on Tumblr, but forgot to here. Based on the S3 finale CS feels inspired by the sneak peek before 5x11,and all the gif sets showing just how not-into-it Killian is in the past with Regina. Little ficlet where he remembers that damn bar wench he kisses, to his annoyance.

He actually has to steel himself against a flinch as the Evil Queen's dark red talons rake down his arm. Which is ridiculous; Killian Jones hasn't flinched in centuries: he's Captain Hook, indisputably the most feared pirate in all the realms, brutal and merciless, a notorious rogue with women…well. It's looking more and more as though it should be amended to 'former rogue with women'. Ever since that damn bar wench he kissed, the touch of another hadn't brought the usual mindless lust to the surface; in truth, the thought of a strange woman's lips on his, hands on his body, or legs wrapped around his waist lately inspire only revulsion, disinterest, or both in succession. Usually both.

Pathetic that the great Hook has been reduced to this level of discontent, and over a woman with whom he only shared a few—all right, a lot—of drinks with, and whose name he never even learned. And yet…she'd been different. Not the simpering, bashful types that put up no real resistance to his dominating, charming overtures. True, it didn't make any difference to him who he was rooting at the end of an evening, they were all the same, but…she wasn't. And she wouldn't have been in that respect, he just knew. She'd literally caressed his hook, not stared in fear or awe. And with that coy tilt of her head, batting lashes, and abundance of cleavage, she just might have had a better handle on instigating dalliances than he. Though Killian hadn't minded, had very much wanted to be under her spell. And once he'd gotten his hand on the smooth curve of her hip, had her blonde waves tickling his face, her pliant mouth parting beneath his, all else had ceased to matter. Only his need for the mysterious wench was imperative. And then—

Nothing. Then, nothing.

How many times he's cursed himself for drinking to the point of blacking out that night is innumerable at this point. Killian can feel himself start to tune out the Evil Queen; her overpainted lips move, but he registers nothing. In the back of his mind, he knows he should be showing her a certain level of respect. From where he stands, she's the best bet at present to being the key to his revenge, not to mention could strike him down where he stands with a flick of her wrist.

 _Face facts, Jones_ , his common sense finally rears its head. _You finally have it within your grasp to kill the Crocodile. Buck up, give the wretched harridan what she wants, and take what you need in return_.

Sometimes, still, usually in that vulnerable time before drifting off to sleep, he wonders what would have happened if he hadn't had so much rum. Wonders what the soft skin of her thighs against his hips would be like, how she would sound as he laved his tongue to her most intimate areas, how her expression would be in the throes of passion, and even if…if she would have liked him the next morning. Lingered, possibly, drawing nonsensical patterns on his chest with her fingertip after another unhurried session of lovemaking. But how long before she would have seen the broken monster under the suave exterior, or decided her efforts were better utilized elsewhere, and dashed any light possibilities that had arisen in his blackened soul?

Killian polishes off his goblet of wine, throws it over his shoulder with the utmost nonchalance, showing this queen that she doesn't intimidate him in the slightest. He steels himself to follow her into the carriage. She leers at him so obviously, maybe he'll give her a pinch on the arse just to make her think he desires her, stay in her good graces, and more importantly, keep his own mind from straying back to the blonde she-devil that won't leave his musings.

 _Keep going, you're so close…so close_. And with a more determined step, Killian firmly shuts the carriage door and leans back against the headrest.

It wasn't as though he'd ever see her again.


End file.
